Season for Justice
by TheRealAlyshebaFan
Summary: Carlton Lassiter isn't exactly known for speaking up for a convict, but if a man decides to make a change to his life, he can...can't he?
1. Season for Justice

Well, I lean more toward Carlowe (the chemistry was amazing!), but I would take Lassiet, because they'd just be so...adorable, while Shules just disturbs me somehow, in the whole 'adult dating a 13-year old boy' sense. But anyway, I'm not sure if I'll have another chapter or not. We'll see. I may come up with a wrap-up on the murder mystery (I don't write mysteries, so that could be tough), but I'm going largely on some spoilers I've seen for S6, so that could all come into play if I continue this.

Now, on with the show!

* * *

><p>It was a pretty grisly murder scene, as murder scenes went, and yet fairly standard.<p>

Juliet hated being so used to seeing them, because she knew that it meant part of her had become hard, or maybe just…jaded. A few years ago, she'd be tossing her cookies into a potted palm, but now, she took a clinical approach to the whole thing. It was all even rather academic. Dead body. Three bullet holes in the chest. Strange little tufts of fuzzy stuff around the body. Big puddle of blood spreading on the egg-white Berber carpet. Don't look too close, or you'd think that a bottle of Heinz 57 had exploded when the man had fallen on it. No signs of struggle or forced entry. A neighbor had seen a 'willowy blonde' leaving the house the night before, but had not heard gunshots or screaming or anything.

The CSI's were taking photos and collecting evidence. Shawn was nowhere in sight, and for that Juliet was rather grateful, because her partner had a _splitting _headache and was in a particularly grouchy mood. She couldn't really blame him, though. His condition was not due to a hangover, but a massive, killer, surely-it-must-be-a-brain-tumor migraine.

McNabb scuttled over and handed Lassiter a cup of steaming coffee, for which he was given an only mildly grumpy 'thanks' before scuttling away again. The tall, weary-looking detective looked around the crime scene – a richly luxurious living room in one of Santa Barbara's richest neighborhoods – and edged around the CSI's, looking at a path muddy of footprints heading toward the kitchen. He crouched, holding the coffee cup out and rubbing his fingers into the mud. One of the CSI's came over and murmured for a moment with him, and he nodded and stood up, wincing a little, and took a sip of scalding coffee.

"Willowy blonde tracking mud into the house?" Carlton said to her, blinking against the lights from the chandelier above his head. "That doesn't exactly add up, does it? Willowy blondes tend to avoid mud, in most cases. And these aren't willowy blonde footprints. They look like boot prints. About a size ten."

"Right," she nodded, and stepped around a small pack of CSI's still taking photos from every possible angle. "It was raining last night, too, so the killer must have come around the through the garden…"

"But look at the second set of prints," Carlton pointed out. He rubbed his eyes. "McNabb, would you get me some aspirin…please?"

Only too pleased to help his hero, Buzz went out to the car to retrieve the bottle. Juliet raised an eyebrow at her partner, wondering. He was rarely this polite. Maybe it was the headache.

"Look at these prints." He pointed at the two sets – both were typically muddy, with rather ugly collections of red cedar chips and oozing mud. "One's at least a size ten. The other set is considerably smaller."

"Yeah," she nodded. Juliet walked over, stepping across the blood puddle. Carlton placed his foot next to one of the larger footprints. She placed her foot next to one of the smaller. "Two killers?" she whispered to her partner.

The widow of the dead man was sitting on the living room couch, sobbing, twisting a napkin on her finger. Carlton had barely spoken two words to her, but he was now studying the woman with increasing interest, sipping his coffee. She was a comfortable-looking woman, a bit wide of hip and voluptuous – a sort of sexy matron type, with tousled blonde hair and blue eyes. He moved closer to her.

"Mrs…?"

Juliet mouthed 'Tomlinson' to him, and he leaned down a little, to get to eye level with her.

"Mrs. Tomlinson?"

She wiped her eyes.

"Yes?"

"I'm Detective Lassiter, SBPD. This is Detective O'Hara. Could I ask you a couple of questions?"

Juliet sighed. Carlton was not going to offer any kind of condolences. He always cut right to the chase. Tactlessly so, usually.

"Okay…" She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, and Carlton watched her carefully before finally squatting down again, so that he was eye level with her. She drew in her breath, and Juliet knew that his startling blue eyes had made her uneasy. Well, maybe not uneasy, because she was now looking at the detective with prurient interest. Juliet caught the disgusted look that crossed her partner's face, and shook her head sadly.

"Did you hear anything during the night? Any noises?" he asked, his voice sharper now.

"No. I didn't even hear Lloyd leave our bedroom last night." She had a distinctive Southern drawl.

"You two are alone in this house?"

"Yes."

He looked around the room for a moment. There were photographs on the walls and on tables – formal and informal family shots of Lloyd Tomlinson and his wife and children. All four of the children were apparently grown and had left the nest. He zeroed back in on Mrs Tomlinson, and stood up again. "O'Hara, let's take a tour of the house, shall we?"

Mrs Tomlinson resumed her sobbing, and Carlton eyed her briefly.

"Let's go."

* * *

><p>"Huh…master bedroom is bigger than my entire apartment. But…she said she didn't hear him leave <em>their<em> bedroom. But you can tell only one person ever slept in this bed last night." He gestured toward the bed. Indeed, only one side of the king size bed was rumpled, while the other was undisturbed. "She mustn't move around a lot in her sleep." He looked at the dressing table across the room and saw prescription bottles and examined one. "Vicodin." He looked at another. "Hydrocodone. Two different prescribing docs, too." A pair of CSI's came into the room, and he gestured to them to take the RX's into evidence.

Juliet looked through the two cavernous closets and found nothing interesting. "Lots of shoes. Prada! Look at all this Prada! Oh my God…hello, Imelda Marcos!"

He sighed, shaking his head, and she pulled herself back into Detective Mode. "Any muddy boots?" he asked, flipping through his notes.

"Nope."

They trailed across the hall, and Juliet noticed Lassiter looking at his watch. He caught her look and ran a hand through his hair.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Uh…yeah. Later today."

"Doctor?"

"Hm? Oh. No. Not a doctor."

"You are getting to be of a Certain Age," she said, grinning as they entered the bedroom across the hall. The bed was neatly made. A brief perusal of the room revealed nothing interesting and they moved on.

"I'm not _that_ age yet. The glove has not become a part of my annual medical exam, thank you, and even if it did, I wouldn't be talking about it with you. Or anybody. Not even my priest. God, maybe." He looked at his notes again. "Dja notice that her eyes weren't red?"

"What?"

"Eyes. Not red. You cry, your eyes turn red, right?"

"Yes…" Juliet raised her eyebrow at her partner. He scratched his ear and they continued to the third and fourth bedrooms, with Carlton muttering about 'overdoing it'.

"Exactly. You cry, your eyes turn red, you blubber about, you sniffle and hornk into a napkin, and nobody can enjoy their peach cobbler. Or least I couldn't, last time I tried to eat with you while you were crying. That woman was doing her best Lady MacBeth back there but her eyes weren't red. I found that kind of odd. Didn't you?"

"I…suppose. But maybe she's just in shock. Or has already done all her crying, before we showed up."

"Her eyes would still be red, though," he pointed out. "She found the body. They'd been married twenty-eight years. Four kids. Guy made a fortune importing diamonds. If my husband imported diamonds for a living and was found dead, I'd be crying _floods_."

They entered bedroom number six and were startled to see the bed had been slept in, with sheets twisted and the blanket thrown on the floor…and two pillows with separate headprints were still on the bed. Carlton stepped around the room, and lifted the sheets, then recoiled in horror. "Oh dear _God_…"

"What? What is it?"

He put on his gloves, winced, reached under the sheets and held up a condom. A used condom. He looked sick to his stomach and looked again. He found four more, all used, and his obvious disgust dissolved into mild amusement.

"Well…way to go, Lloyd!"

"Willowy Blonde strikes again?" Juliet asked, unable to hide a grin.

"About five times, it looks like. Lloyd had game, but Lloyd was awfully stupid, wasn't he?"

* * *

><p>Back downstairs in the Tomlinson bedroom, Juliet watched Carlton step around the pool of blood. The CSI's were still dusting for prints and taking a few final photos. Juliet remembered Carlton telling her that sometimes, on slow days, the CSI's were also prone to sit the body up and pose with it while waving its hands or pulling the skin behind its neck to make its mouth move, in a kind of really sick tribute to <em>Weekend<em>_ at __Bernie's_. She had not been amused, but she had seen a little spark of amusement in his eyes as he had told her the story, so that she wasn't sure if he wasn't giving her a bit of Irish blarney.

He looked at the couch, and stepped toward it, shooing Mrs Tomlinson aside in his usual brusque manner. She moved aside, and he noted that one of the couch cushions was missing. "I'm not a decorator, ma'am," he said. "So maybe I'm wrong, but then again, I have an eye for symmetry. You have space on that couch for _four_ suede throw pillows. You have two red and one gray. Where's the other gray pillow?" The couch and the pillows did indeed match the room's décor, which was all reds and blacks and whites, in a kind of New Orleans Bordello-meets-_Dynasty_ style.

"I…I'm not sure. Maybe it got moved to another room." She shifted on the couch, looking a little uneasy.

"I've never seen someone get so fidgety over a gray pillow. Mind if we look for it?"

She pursed her lips. "Sure. Go ahead. I've been looking for it, too."

* * *

><p>Juliet and Carlton stared, aghast, at the gray pillow. Which had three bullet holes in it.<p>

"Wow. So we've got the how and maybe the why, but what about the who and definitely the _wh_eapon?"

"And the ha. Don't forget about the ha!" Juliet smiled. "The weapon…I figure the killer took it with him, or her. We'll test Mrs Tomlinson hands for gunshot residue, but I'm not so sure she's the killer. But I do know she knows more than she's saying."

"Right."

They had dug the pillow out from under a pile of leaves in the back yard. Buzz had noticed the corner of the pillow sticking out, not exactly matching the red and yellow leaves and had alerted them to it. McNabb had been particularly delighted when Carlton had praised him for his good eye as he held the pillow up. The two detectives could see right through each bullet hole.

"The ha part will likely come at the very end," Carlton said with a snicker. "For some reason, the murderer just refuses to jump up five minutes into the investigation and shriek 'I did it!'"

"Why can't they do that, though?" Juliet asked. They handed the pillow over to the CSI's, who took it away for processing. "Wouldn't it make our jobs so much easier?"

"If it was easy, it wouldn't be interesting."

"And we wouldn't have carpal tunnel syndrome from all that typing, and we wouldn't suffer from dust mite allergies from digging through old newspaper articles and ancient files hidden away in basements no one admits exists and are guarded by Ernest Borgnine."

"You do realize you work for the SBPD, not the CIA, right?" Carlton asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sometimes, I imagine myself as a CIA agent," Juliet told him as they walked back to the house. "I could play with all those gadgets, and there'd be a private jet. Off to Monte Carlo. Name's O'Hara. Juliet O'Hara. Cocoa…stirred…with real marshmallows…"

She was surprised to hear Carlton laugh. He had one of the best laughs she had ever heard, and it was all the more valuable to her because it was so rare. "Santa Claus is a CIA spook, you know."

"Oh, Carlton, please," she said, rolling her eyes. They stepped back into the house, where they saw the CSI's asking Mrs Tomlinson about the see-through pillow.

"No, seriously. _He __sees __you__ when__ you're __sleeping, __he __knows __when __you're __awake__…__he__ knows __if __you've __been __bad or __good__…_yes, a definite spook."

She punched him on the arm and let him open the door for her. _All__ those __little __things_, she thought, _that__ makes __working __with __him__ so__…__comfortable_.

* * *

><p>Juliet stood in the observation room, watching Carlton interview Mrs Tomlinson. She had her arms crossed and was scowling at Carlton, who was actually starting to look <em>bored<em>. He was writing on a legal pad, frowning as he formed his comments. The woman leaned forward and studied him, and he finally looked across the table at her.

"You have beautiful eyes, detective," she said, in a disturbingly sultry voice. "So…_blue_."

"Thank you," Carlton answered mildly.

"Do they turn violet when you're…?"

He looked vaguely alarmed. "When I'm what?"

"Aroused."

He looked _angry_ then. Juliet glanced at the door. Should she go in there and rescue Mrs Tomlinson?

"Are they from your mother or your father?"

"Father," he answered, tugging at his collar, his eyes turning a darker blue. Almost cerulean, which meant _trouble_.

"What does he do?"

"He gets away."

Mrs Tomlinson raised her eyebrows. Carlton pursed his lips, fighting for control, and read over his notes. "Did you see anybody lurking about your house last night, in a murderous manner?"

"No," she said, shrugging. "I went to bed at nine." She began examining her fingernails. He looked at his watch and closed his eyes, and Juliet suspected he was praying for patience.

"Did anybody have anything against your husband?"

"No."

"No enemies?"

"Lloyd was loved by everyone," she said, putting only a slight emphasis on the final word. Lassiter raised an eyebrow.

"Everyone? The milkman, the paperboy, the mail man…the maid?"

She shifted in her seat.

"I don't know anybody who has no enemies, Mrs Tomlinson. In fact, I don't trust people who have no enemies. If you have no enemies, you're doing something _wrong_. Or maybe he finally did piss somebody off?"

Juliet jumped when she heard observation room door open. Shawn stepped in, looking disgruntled. "Nobody called me about this little murder thing?" he asked her.

"It's our case, Shawn. We don't always need you."

Spencer looked even more miffed, and looked out at Carlton and Mrs Tomlinson, who was leaning forward now, on her elbows, looking across at the detective, who didn't flinch but looked rather uncomfortable. Juliet found it odd that her usually stoic partner seemed…unsettled. He had been a little off all day. The headache had been beaten off, for the most part, by three Advils and coffee strong enough to strip the chrome off a trailer hitch, but the residual aches were clearly still there, and from what Juliet could tell, the migraine was edging its way back, like a tiny, angry Viking with an anvil, a big hammer, and a grudge.

"Are you married?" Mrs Tomlinson asked him.

He sighed. "That's irrelevant to this situation."

"You could try being more friendly. More outgoing…"

"That rarely works for me, except under very, very extraordinary circumstances. Now. Listen. There were footprints leading from the front door to your husband's body, and then around him to the back door and out onto the sidewalk, and went to ground in the cedar mulch, and the SBPD's bloodhound – his name is Clyde – is taking a nap right now, so we can't turn him loose out there to follow a now very wet, very cold trail. So let's try this again…did you hear anything last night?"

"No."

"Nothing at all?" he asked, finally looking really, really irritated.

"Nothing at all."

"Ma'am, right now, you are the prime suspect in this case," he told her, enunciating each word carefully. "You're telling me that the alarm system didn't go off when an _intruder_ came into your house and shot your husband three times?"

"Lloyd must have turned it off."

"Why? Your husband sold diamonds for a living. There were three cases of them in his office. If he turned off the alarms, you'd have to think he was suicidal, right?"

She studied him again, and Juliet wondered how Carlton would tolerate being jumped, because that woman was practically panting over him. "Why, detective, your sweet words could charm the dew right off the honeysuckle," she simpered.

He looked aghast. "_What_?"

"Good God, she's got the hots for him," Shawn said, looking surprised.

"Ma'am, you'll be going to a women's prison, so you should be brushing up on a different pickup line," Carlton pointed out, not unkindly. He stood up. "Sit tight. Detective O'Hara will be having a go at you next, and yes, I realize that was probably the wrong phrase to use, but you are seriously creeping me out."

"I still say you have beautiful eyes."

"Yeah, whatever." He picked up his file and left, and Juliet and Shawn stepped out of the observation room to meet him. He rubbed his forehead, not pleased to see Spencer. "Go ahead. I've got to go find some Vicodin."

"You do have really beautiful eyes, Lassie," Shawn said. "The kind that women would just love to dive right into…"

Carlton eyed the faux psychic for a moment before continuing on down the hall, and they soon heard him clattering up the stairs, moving rather quickly for a man with a resurgent migraine. Then they heard clattering again, and he reappeared at the corner. "Let Spencer talk to her, after you. Give him the sheet. _Don't_ let him anywhere near the crime scene, though. Keep him away, even if you have to shoot him. In fact, just shoot him, full stop."

"Carlton, are you crazy?" Juliet asked, astonished.

"I'm here aren't I? Call me if there's any major developments. You'll get voicemail. Leave me a message and I'll…catch up." He gave them a vague nod and turned to clatter back up the stairs again, obviously in a hurry.

"My God, he's off the reservation _again_!"

* * *

><p>The parole board – two gimlet-eyed women and three grumpy-looking men – were seated at the long conference table, facing the two smaller tables. Carlton stepped into the room, flashed his badge to the guard, and took a seat in a chair behind the lawyer's table, keeping out direct line of vision of the parole board. The prosecutor was looking over some files and scribbling something on a notepad, and when he looked up he saw Carlton, he almost smiled, but then realized that the detective was on the <em>wrong<em> side of the room.

"Detective Lassiter, shouldn't you be over here?" he called.

"Er…no. Not today." He acknowledged two other people in the room, both apparently there to testify on behalf of imprisoned family members hoping to be released as well. For the first time in his career, he felt a strange twinge of sympathy for them. In most cases, he'd be telling them that they should recognize that their loved one had screwed himself as much as he had screwed them. But now…

"You're actually testifying on _behalf_ of the prisoner? You've never done that."

He shrugged and returned his gaze to the parole board. Five people that made a Soviet-era oblast council meeting look like a trip to Disney World, he thought glumly. _And __earthly __power __doth __become __like __God's, __when__ mercy __seasons __justice_. He tugged at his tie.

The prosecutor got up and came over to sit down beside Carlton. "What is this? You're here to speak for…" He consulted his file. "Marlowe Viccellio?"

"Mm." Carlton straightened his cuffs and adjusted his tie.

"Why? Weren't you the arresting officer?"

"Yep." Carlton adjusted the tie again – it really was like wearing a noose. Why the hell did he wear the wretched things? He thought about removing it, but decided against it. It would be best to look as official as possible.

"And now you're trying to get her off on early parole?"

Carlton didn't answer.

The head of the parole board – named, hilariously, Ted Baxter - was a man Carlton knew as a hard-line law and order type. He didn't look like Ted Knight, though. He looked a lot more like Joseph Stalin's demented nephew, to be honest, which in itself was kind of disturbing. He banged his gavel and gestured to the bailiff to bring in the prisoner.

Carlton swallowed and kept his seat while the prosecutor went back to his seat. The prisoner lawyer, who was unfamiliar to Carlton, stood as Marlowe was lead into the room by a female guard. Her hair was a little longer, and tied back with a black band, and she looked a little paler than when he'd met her three months ago. Prison pallor, he thought sadly. Otherwise, she looked healthy enough. Her cornflower blue eyes sought him and when she finally saw him, a small smile flitted across her face, but a sharp, warning look from him made it vanish and she looked down, meekly letting the guard lead her to her seat.

Orange is _not_ her best color, Carlton thought gloomily.

"We're hear to listen to the case for the early release of one Ms Marlowe Catalyn Viccellio, prisoner number six-five-six-oh-five-two," the head of the board said, his voice rough. "Mr Ellis?"

"Miss Viccellio did break into a blood bank, with her brother – a convicted murderer – to steal blood. She and her brother caused about two thousand dollars worth of property damage. The state believes she should remain in this facility for the duration of her sentence."

"And no one was hurt during that little misadventure," the lawyer pointed out. "And the blood was recovered. Or, at least, most of it. Some of it was accidentally…er…spilled."

Carlton remembered Spencer telling him about that. The only good part of that was hearing that Guster had punched him in the chest as a result.

"So, what, no harm, no foul, Mr Carruthers?" the head of the board snapped, giving Marlowe's lawyer a sharp glare. "I understand you have someone here to vouch for Miss Viccellio's character?"

"Uh, yes, sir, I call…Detective Carlton Lassiter."

Carlton stood and moved over to the table, sitting down beside the lawyer, who gave him a searching look.

Baxter leaned forward, studying Carlton. "Detective Lassiter, never before in the past fifteen years of your stellar service to the Santa Barbara Police Department have you been in this room or any other parole board meeting anywhere in the entire state of California and possibly even this planet to petition for the early release of any prisoner who was incarcerated for any crime including littering. In fact, I seem to recall that the last time you attended a parole board hearing, you were actually trying to persuade the board to change a prisoner's sentence from life without parole to death via…let's see if I can recall…Woody Allen movies."

Lassiter cleared his throat. "_Everybody __Says __I __Love __You,_ in particular, sir, but that man was a cold-blooded murderer who decapitated two women and dumped their remains in a landfill, and Miss Viccellio is…not."

"She is a thief and a liar, though," one of the women on the board spoke up.

"She was trying to help her brother," Carlton said. He could barely believe he was saying such a thing. Before Marlowe, a thief and a liar wouldn't get a single good word out of him. Not one. But this was different. She hadn't intended to hurt anyone. Of course, it still went through his mind sometimes, when he remembered how they had met. He had been her first mark – she had been coerced (persuaded? talked into? begged?) into luring him somewhere so her brother could bonk him over the head and drain some of his blood. Or was it something else, like that urban legend about a German guy being drugged in his hotel room in Bangkok after a night of great sex with a hot blonde and waking up in a bathtub filled with blood-covered ice, a note instructing him on who to call, and by the way, thanks for the kidney…

He cleared his throat and swallowed. _Faith__ is __the __evidence __of __things __hoped __for, __the __proof __of__ things __not __seen_. He was operating on faith now. He had to.

What was this called? Terror and elation all at once? Telation? Elerror? Oh, God, he thought. I'm thinking like Spencer!

"Detective?" Baxter said sharply. "Still with us?"

"Sorry. Uh…like I was saying, she didn't hurt anybody. Her brother did all that. Her actions were well-meant, if misguided, and she was only trying to keep a family member alive. She shouldn't have done what she did, but…well…uh…it was for a commendable cause. I'm not saying she can be excused for what she did. Reasons are not excuses, but the reasons were…er…valid. I'm sure that if you had a family member or loved one who was dying, you would move heaven and earth to help them. You'd even do something…illegal, if necessary, if it really came down to it."

"Would you?" Baxter asked him.

"I'm as human as the next guy." Carlton took a deep breath. "Sir. And isn't mercy a big part of justice?"

The panel stared at Lassiter, all with varying expressions of dismay and surprise. He tugged at his collar. He hated being stared at. Even more than he hated admitting to being human. _You're __a__ robot, __sir!_

Finally, Baxter spoke up. "Her brother also attacked you in your home, did he not?"

"I'm not going to advocate for _his_ release, sir," Carlton said, adding a chilly edge to his voice. "And I overpowered him."

"After he chloroformed you?" the second woman asked him, looking down at her notes.

"Uh…yeah."

"How in hell do you overpower someone while chloroformed?"

"Well…a little slowly, I admit, but I did manage it, and Adrian Viccellio is serving a fifteen-year sentence for second degree murder. Marlowe Viccellio, on the other hand, never laid a hand on anybody." He remembered her hands on _his_ body and drew in a breath, forcing himself back to calm and collected instead of…he winced. He hadn't felt such a powerful surge of desire for any woman in his life. It far surpassed that summer day when he was seventeen and Mrs Colby next door had lured him into her bedroom to help her 'move some furniture'…

"So you're of the opinion that Ms Viccellio is no threat to society?"

"None whatsoever, ma'am," Carlton finally answered, his heart finally slowing down a little through sheer force of will. "She has no prior criminal record, aside from a parking ticket, and she paid that fine off long ago. She has maintained steady employment since the age of sixteen, mostly with a film editing company and they're very eager to let her come back to work at any time. She's been an exemplary prisoner, with not a single incident recorded against her, and she works in the prison library and does volunteer work, teaching English to other prisoners…" His illogical and hormonal side wanted to point out that she was also beautiful and kind and funny and felt warm and soft underneath him, but his rational side smacked that part of himself down and told him to shut his going-crazy-with-_longing_ yap.

"I still find it rather interesting that you're here to advocate for her," Baxter said coldly. "You have never shown even the slightest degree of sympathy for a prisoner before."

"I just think it's the right thing to do…sir."

"Hm."

Baxter tried again to fix Lassiter with a hard stare, but Carlton was made of sterner stuff. He returned the stare, unflinching. Finally, Baxter waved his hand and called for a conference with the other board members. The five judges put their heads together for a brief, murmured pow-wow, and Marlowe risked looking around her lawyer at him. Carlton only glanced briefly at her, and caught a brief smile in her eyes. He straightened his tie. She sat back in her chair.

Baxter finally leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table. "Ms Vecchellio, please rise."

Marlowe stood up slowly, and Carlton's fingers twitched, his heart traveling slowly up from his chest to his throat.

"We have decided, considering your lack of criminal record and frankly, criminal finesse, to take a chance on you and allow you to be paroled. Your parole will last one year and two months, which is the remainder of what would have been your entire sentence in this facility. You will receive the conditions of your parole from your lawyer, and you will be expected to meet every single condition of that parole, without fail or you will be re-incarcerated until such time as your complete sentence is fulfilled. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Marlowe said softly.

Baxter frowned. "Well…I admit, you don't look like a criminal, but if Detective Lassiter here believes you can toe the line, then we'll stake _his _reputation on it." He closed the vanilla folder on the table. The five parole board members left the room in single file, and Carlton sincerely hoped they would be able to help each other remove the sticks that were crammed up their asses. He stood up and muttered polite responses to Carruthers, who shook his hand and thanked him for a job well done.

"Oh, and I guess you remember Miss Vecchellio. Marlowe, you remember Detective Lassiter, right?"

"Yes, he arrested me," she said, smiling shyly at him. Carlton swallowed. "Thank you, Detective. I…really didn't expect anyone to speak up for me." She held her hand out to him, and he finally took it, covering her smaller, fragile-looking hand with his own.

"Uh…right. Well, I…I'm a great believer in second chances. Sometimes even third and fourth…hell, sometimes, I even give the tenth and twentieth a try. Good luck." He made a very slight bow, and as soon as Carruther's back was turned, he flashed her a grin and mouthed 'Give me a call' before turning and walking out of the room and back out into the brilliant fall sunshine.

In his car, he dug around in the glovebox until he found the paper where he had written out the words. He had sent his battered copy of Shakespeare's play to Marlowe, and had underlined the words for her, hoping she would understand what he was about to do, and how it was a major turning point for him.

He taken a few drama courses in college, mainly to learn how to conceal his emotions a little better – a childhood of having them used against him had taken their toll by then, to the point that he was already finding gray hairs and his blood pressure was higher than normal at just twenty-one. It was weird, then, that the teacher had told him he was the best damned actor he had ever come across. "Mr Lassiter, I can honestly say that the theatre is losing a lot by you taking up law enforcement. You could go far on the stage." The teacher had forced Carlton to take the role of Antonio in _The__ Merchant __of __Venice_, but he had been (secretly) enthralled with Portia's speech, and he read the first lines again, even though he had memorized them years ago.

_The quality of mercy is not strain'd _

_It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven _

_Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; _

_It blesseth him that gives_

…_and him that takes_

He started the engine. He would still draw the line against pure evil. He knew it. He saw it every day and fought that battle every day, nonstop. But maybe…maybe it was just time to start looking at the gray areas a little when it came to people who had simply made an honest mistake while doing the best they could. Maybe it was time to start seasoning his sense of justice with a dash of mercy every now and then. He doubted it would be easy to change a lifelong attitude, but he couldn't find any reason to not give it a try. A person could change, if they really wanted to, and lately, he wanted to.

His cell phone started ringing – what would people think if they found out he had changed his ringtone to the theme from _The__ Good, __the __B__ad __and __the __Ugly_? - and he saw O'Hara's name and number. He laughed to himself and let voicemail pick it up. He had a few things to square away. O'Hara could manage the interrogation, and justice was extremely patient.


	2. Guidelines

I'm extremely nauseated tonight, what with painkillers and antibiotics after wisdom tooth extraction yesterday. I nonetheless finished this chapter out and hope to have something written before I hack up a boot.

I own nothing of Psych. Of course, you know that. But I'm sick to my stomach and feel obligated to say that, to assuage any guilt should I perish from this dreadful nausea.

* * *

><p>"Uh…okay, so we need to go over a few…guidelines."<p>

Marlowe tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear and studied Carlton, watching his hands as they flipped through the sheets that spelled out her fate for the next year and a half. He had such beautiful hands. She wondered if he played the piano – his fingers were long and strong and graceful, while still incredibly masculine. She remembered that they were a little calloused, too, and she wondered what sort of outdoors work he did. Chopping wood? Roughing up large, recalcitrant criminals? Chopping large, recalcitrant criminals?

"Okay, first of all, for the first five months of your parole, you have to meet with your parole office four times a month. He'll send you a schedule. You also can't leave Santa Barbara during that time for any reason unless you can submit viable cause to leave, like a death in the family or a nuclear strike from North Korea, which would render parole kind of…moot."

"Right." She smiled.

They were seated on a bench, looking out at the ocean, and the breeze was getting a little chilly. That was why she was currently wearing his suit coat, and she was breathing in his slightly woodsy scent – a light, masculine cologne that she had smelled on him during that first date, when she had ended up in his bed and had been _extremely_ willing to wake up there the next morning after a very active night. Four months of sitting around in jail had failed to obliterate that scent or that memory from her mind.

She looked at him again, barely able to believe she was out of that prison, breathing in fresh air and sitting beside her…

What was he? He had visited her every Wednesday during her incarceration. He had told her about himself, but she sensed he was still being guarded, holding back the parts that were still bruised and aching, and she often had ideas of going after every person that had ever hurt him with a sternal saw and a wood chipper. He hadn't told her his entire story, but not because he didn't actually trust her in many ways, but because – and this was just a hunch on her part – he had been burned a few times before and was still uncertain. She didn't blame him for that. Besides that, she knew that he was taking a risk on her. A risk of his reputation, but mainly a major risk of his heart.

Okay, so he's forty-two, Marlowe thought. Forty-two, divorced, six feet four inches, dark hair with delicious silver threads, _gorgeous_ blue eyes and an interesting hook to his nose, and he could probably do a little about the length of his sideburns, but really, there was little that seemed to require improvement. He was too old – well, _ripened_ - for her to call him a _boy_, so boyfriend sounded like something out of _Happy__ Days_, and cops don't generally date convicted felons. She sighed and looked out at the ocean. She supposed she might end up having to settle with just sleeping with him. God knew she wanted to. More than anything. In the past hour, she had been thinking about all the delicious things this quiet, reserved, clearly damaged man could do to her, and of the passionate nature that existed under that cool, collected demeanor.

So was he her boyfriend, in the sense most people considered the term? The term was still so totally inappropriate for Carlton. He was not a boy by any stretch of the imagination. He was a mature man, with unmistakable signs of insecurity and a drop or two of _goofy_ without being silly, which she liked in a man, and he was easily the sexiest man she had ever met. Finally, she figured she should go ahead and ask him.

"Carlton?"

"Mm?" He was perusing the papers, squinting a little because the light was fading. He looked at her, and she drew in her breath, realizing she was always going to get stopped mid-thought by those _eyes_.

"What are we, exactly?"

"Er…huh?" His brow furrowed. Okay. He's male. Men often don't get things unless they're explained carefully.

So. _Patience_. "I mean, are we…boyfriend, girlfriend…lovers…friends? You visited me every Wednesday, these past four months. You sent me stuff – like _The __Merchant__ of __Venice_ and a Glock made out of chocolate, which I had to hide from my cellmate, and packs of cigarettes to use for bartering. You put notes against the window – terse, to the point notes, which is very like you, about various cases you were working on, and little bits about your family and your life that you didn't elaborate on a lot. A little blunt honesty would be good right now, because I'm kind of a…_wreck_…_wondering_."

"Oh." He put down the papers and looked out at the water, tugging nervously at his tie. Then she realized he was getting cold. The breeze off the ocean was getting chillier by the moment, and she wondered if he was the 'sit in front of the fire and drink wine' type. She recalled a fireplace at his place. She had one at hers, too.

Her roommates were delighted to have her back, but she had kept that reunion brief, because when she had called Carlton after getting home, he had told her he needed to see her. _Immediately_. As he was the sort of man who was clearly accustomed to being obeyed, she had declined an invitation to go dancing (sans stick-on nails) and gone to the pier and waited for him instead.

"Yes?"

He rubbed his nose. "Well, definitely _yes_. I mean, we're…we're…uh…something. I suppose a questionnaire would be a helpful thing right now."

"A questionnaire?" she raised an amused eyebrow.

"Did a few of those on E-Harmony and those idiotic speed dating things, which in both cases were disastrous. I mean, what do you say for those questions that won't scare a woman off? So…maybe I'm wrong there. A questionnaire might be unhelpful."

"You tried online dating?" she asked softly.

"Yeah. Pathetic, huh?"

"No. It just means you were tired of being lonely. I'm pretty damned sick of it myself."

"Yeah, but you have friends. Those roommates…Eddie, Jake, Lucien…plus dozens of others, I'm sure. I don't really have…friends. Colleagues, acquaintances, my partner…"

"Well, yes, they're friends. Good friends. They've been very supportive through all this. Even Lucien, who collects Limoges figurines and believes aliens built the Pyramids. Eddie is obsessed with pirates. Pirate history, pirate lore, pirate booty, Captain Morgan rum, Johnny Depp. Jake likes to wear kilts and attend Scottish Highland games and Renaissance fairs. And I seem to recall _five_ people at your door that night, all very concerned about your safety. Something about a thump or a cough of some kind, and a battering ram…and a wooden stake…"

He scoffed and stared at her, eyes almost opaque in the fading light, his brow furrowed. "_Limoges_?"

"Yep."

"Hm." He fidgeted with his tie, and she felt a curling excitement in her stomach, watching those hands. "After I got my divorce, I shot several of my ex-wife's figurines. She called me a few days later, asking where they were. She wasn't too pleased…"

"Why did you get divorced?"

He swallowed and looked down. "I screwed it all up. Too devoted to work. I didn't spend enough time with her. She thought I hated kids and didn't want any. It was my fault…"

"What, you were only married to yourself? Marriages don't fail because of just one person. It takes two to tango, Carlton. I can't imagine that it was just _you_."

He sighed and leaned back, stretching his long legs out, shaking his head. "Then I tried to fix it. To get her back, because I couldn't bring myself to admit that I _had_ failed, even though I knew she didn't love me. Probably never loved me, in fact. Most people don't. Most people can't stand me. And one thing I have trouble admitting to is failure." He exhaled, as if giving such a speech had taken all his strength to force out.

Marlowe smiled, knowing the last thing he needed now was pity, but his statement of how nobody loved him brought tears to her eyes. Still, she knew that was a statement best left unexplored for the moment, because it was one of the bruises he still wore. "Everybody fails sometimes, Carlton. It's okay to fail. In fact, it's very brave."

"_Brave_?" he snorted with bitter laughter.

"Yes. Extremely brave. It means you've got to start over. Get the ducks back and try and line them up again, even if they keep running off, quacking and laughing at you. It's hard, it's painful, it's often humiliating, but humility is a good thing for anybody. You know – _pride__ goeth __before __a __fall_. We could all use a dash of humility. It's brave because you're letting yourself go back to square one, saying, 'Okay, where do I go from here?' and not knowing the answer. You're stepping out into the abyss, without a parachute, no less."

He stared at her, and Marlowe smiled. "None of the self-help books say that. I read _Men __Are __From __Mars, __Women __Are __From__ Venus_, because my therapist insisted on it. Victoria was actually from _hell_. Her and her family. Particularly her father."

Marlowe laughed, but gently. She looked at Carlton, and saw his expression – he looked horrified. "What?"

"Uh…somebody's…coming. Look straight ahead."

She gazed out at the ocean, the arc of the sun slipping into the ocean, spreading molten gold all around as it slowly succumbed to its nightly death. In the sun's last gasps, she could make out the stars coming out, and the sky turning a shade almost as beautiful as the color of Carlton's eyes.

He glanced back and watched the couple walk by, hand in hand. He turned back, licking his lips and finally leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

"I like to think that we're…uh…in a…relationship. Except that I suck at relationships. I either scare them off or I mess everything up by being…well, myself."

"And you think _yourself_ is the only problem?" she asked softly.

"Well, yeah…that's part of the whole failure thing. I'm also Irish, so I _ought_ to be accustomed to disappointment. But I'm not. I'm not entirely Irish. There's some German in there, too. And a dash of Cherokee. All in all, a very tragic family tree."

She touched his hand, and he actually looked startled. Contact was clearly something this man craved, but was also wary of. Maybe even afraid of, because of the potential for more damage, more bruises, more scars. But he looked at her, expression guarded but…_hopeful_. Longing. Terrified.

"I'm scared too," she nodded, and saw his eyes darken. "I'm not perfect, I screw up, too. My unfortunate incarceration being a true testament of _that_. I also tend toward low self-esteem sometimes and before I met you, I had rather poor choicing skills when it came to men. But I'm sick of being lonely."

Shyly, almost boyishly, he intertwined her fingers with his, and in the fading light she caught that heart-melting smile of his. The one that made her shiver with excitement. "But are you willing to…uh…take a chance? On somebody like me? Because believe me, I'm no prize."

"I do enjoy gambling," she smiled. "I even win sometimes."

His mouth twitched, and she knew there was a story to tell. He looked at the ocean again, and finally drew in a breath. "Gambling? You enjoy gambling?"

"Sometimes. Never with the rent or grocery money."

"Well, yes, only a fool would do that. What do you bet on?"

"I like to go to Hollywood Park sometimes, or Santa Anita. I love watching the horses – they're such beautiful, brave animals, and the jockeys, and all the color and pageantry…it's magnificent. Football and baseball just pale in comparison."

He nodded. "Well, I'll let you in on a secret. It's about form. Sometimes it's the trainer, or the jockey, but mainly it's form. How's the horse been running lately, is he or she still into the game, and so on. The horse with the bad attitude and the swagger almost always wants to win the most."

"Swagger?"

"Yeah." He sat back, crossing an ankle over his knee. She smiled and knew he was relaxing. A little. "A good horse always has a swagger. The crappy ones tend to…_mince_."

"So you really do enjoy gambling?"

He shrugged. "I haven't done it in a while." She watched him loosen his tie again and sighed. She decided that first, she would persuade him to shorten his sideburns, then to maybe eschew ties sometimes. Beyond that, she wasn't going to push. The last thing he needed, clearly, was to be henpecked. Just a little scrubbing down and some Hugo Boss and he'd be stopping traffic.

"But yes, I always did enjoy it. I made quite a bit of money during college, from the ponies. Paid off my entire loan, in fact. I currently have no debts…a rarity for gamblers, yes, but there you are."

Marlowe stared at him. He was like an artichoke, really. Peel back one layer, only to discover another astounding layer, just beneath. She smiled at him. She was going to enjoy uncovering all those layers.

* * *

><p>"I swear it, Jules. I saw Lassie out there, with some woman."<p>

Juliet shrugged and perused the menu.

"She must have been blind or something. Or maybe he had just arrested her after a lengthy foot chase and was letting her rest a bit before he dragged her to the station. I'm leaning toward blind, though."

"Shut up, Shawn," Juliet said, annoyed with him. Again. He was drinking his _third_ bottle of beer now, and his eyes were starting to swirl around.

He looked offended, then suddenly straightened in his seat. "Oh. My. God."

She looked up at him. "What?"

"Lassie! Hey, dude! C'mon over here and sit with us!" Shawn called, waving his arm, but then his eyes widened, and Juliet turned back to see what her boyfriend was looking at. Her own eyes widened when she saw Marlowe Vicccellio standing there with her partner. The blonde looked cold but cheerful, and her fingers were intertwined with Carlton's. The detective said something to her and she shook her head. They threaded their way through the tables of the seafood restaurant and the head detective acknowledged _Juliet_ but pretty much ignored Shawn.

"What is this?" Shawn said, gesturing between Carlton and Marlowe. "Out on a date furlough or something? Do they have that in the California penal system? An external conjugal visit?" He grinned. Marlowe's eyes narrowed, but Carlton only looked slightly bored.

"How did your interview with Mrs Tomlinson go?" he asked.

"I still don't think she did it," Juliet said. "And the footprints still don't jibe with me. I do think she knows who _did_ do it. We'll go over the details again tomorrow. It's nice to see you, Marlowe…are you out on…uh…parole?"

"Yes," she nodded, giving Juliet a polite smile. The meeting was extremely uncomfortable, what with Shawn's wickedly delighted expression. He was still looking back and forth between Carlton and Marlowe.

"I don't think she did it, either. I read over the report – no gunshot residue on her hands." He pulled out his cellphone and put it on 'vibrate', which was something Juliet had never seen him do in her six years of working with him. "I'll see you tomorrow." He put a hand on Marlowe's back and guided her gently away, toward a table on the other side of the room.

"That is just too weird. Lassie on a date…and with a relatively hot blonde. I mean, an ex-con hot blonde, granted, but still…weird."

"What's so weird about it? He liked her back then, and it was obvious she liked him. She's out on parole. Parolees can go on dates." Juliet wished to God Shawn would just shut up about it. If he said another word about it, he might end up with a spinach and artichoke dip stain on his shirt.

"With _Lassie_?" Shawn hooted with laughter.

* * *

><p>"I hope that didn't make you too…uh…uncomfortable."<p>

Carlton was looking over the menu, hiding his own personal distaste for shellfish and looking for something he could eat. Chicken maybe. Surely this place had chicken. Right…on the childrens' menu. Chicken fingers and French fries hardly seemed right, at this point. He sighed and put the menu down. Coffee and maybe something somewhat dessert-ish. He snatched up the drinks menu and was relieved to see strawberry cheesecake. Better than nothing, and he was too jittery to eat much anyway.

"Not really." She looked the menu over and was cheered to see steamed crabs.

"Good. So…what do you like?"

She looked across the table at him. The dim lighting did a lot for his features, softening them and making him look several years younger. "I like the company quite a lot," she smiled. "And I'll have steamed crabs."

"Ah. Yes. Okay. Good." He would make sure all of the little creatures were facing away from him. Simple enough. He simply couldn't eat anything that still had a face.

"You don't like crab, do you?"

"Hate it, actually, but that's all right, and you said you liked seafood."

"I do." She smiled. "I won't try to convert you, though."

"Good. I'm not sure I'd take to being immersed in crab sauce."

She laughed and looked at the dessert menu. "Oh, my God…cheesecake! I love cheesecake. Maybe we'll get a big piece and just share it."

"Sounds like a plan."

The waiter came and took their orders, then left, Carlton stirring his iced tea and Marlowe squeezing her lemon into her water. A comfortable silence fell between them, and her hand slowly inched across the table to touch his, her fingertips trailing lightly over his knuckles. He swallowed.

"You're investigating a murder?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it…if it's okay to, I mean."

Just then, a violinist came strolling by, playing a bit of Bach. Carlton eyed him, and the little man changed his course a bit and moved toward the other side of the room. Marlowe almost giggled. The man could probably stop a herd of stampeding cattle with that glare.

"Man shot three times in his living room. Wife slept through it. Alarm system off, five used condoms in the guest bed. So, it has all the required elements – adultery…_eww_…pillow fibers, diamonds…"

"What evidence do you have at this point?" she asked, interested.

"Two sets of footprints. One from the front door to the body, another from the body to the back door. Two separate sizes, no less. It's not coming together yet. We'll get there.

"I know you will."

The waiter arrived then and dumped a bucket-load of steamed crabs on the table. Carlton watched, startled, as the waiter put a bib around Marlowe neck and mashed it down to her lap. She took that kind of manhandling in stride, but the waiter flinched at Carlton's sharp glare. He fled, and Carlton's fingers squeezed hers just a little before she gently pulled her hand away and picked up the mallet.

"Hm. Bergman and Bogart had Casablanca. We've got crabs."

She giggled as she smacked whatever life remained out of a crab. "These bibs are pretty silly, I admit," she said, digging the meat out of the shell and dipping it in the melted butter.

"Yeah. Wait'll they bring out the pants."

She looked up at his deadpan expression and sat back in her chair, observing him as he sipped his coffee. "What?"

"You have a touch of the smart-ass in you, don't you? But I admit, I like the _adult_ness of you. You seem to be a very serious man."

"I am. Very much so. A grown-up, I mean. Whenever somebody asks me what I was like when I was a child, I tell them I was shorter." He took up his mallet and smacked his knee, his leg twitching reflexively. Marlowe raised her eyebrows. He took one of the crabs and put it in front of himself, closed his eyes for a moment, and finally picked it up and studied it. "Huh. This one's scrunched up little face reminds me of my mother." He put the crab down and _smack!_ went the mallet, cracking the shell and pretty much ruining the meat. Marlowe covered her mouth with her hand and tried to muffle her laughter.

The violinist strolled by again. Carlton eyed him, almost daring him to come any closer. The little man did a U-turn and headed back to a safer area of the restaurant. He took another crab and eyed it. "This one reminds me of Spencer!" He put it down, studied it for a few moments, and smashed it with the mallet, with just a tiny trace of malice, unconcerned that pieces of crabshell had hit another diner across the way.

Marlowe covered her mouth again and succumbed to helpless laughter.

The violinist came back up the aisle, and actually had enough nerve to stop at their table. She caught Carlton's displeasure – he was clearly not much on Bach. The little man continued playing, flourishing extravagantly as he performed _Air __On __a __G__ String_, and was halfway through the well-known tune when suddenly Carlton snatched his bow away and threw it across the room, where it landed near Spencer and O'Hara's table. The violinist made a valiant grab for the instrument, but he didn't stand a chance. He huffed at Carlton, straightened his red jacket, and stomped off.

Carlton took a sip of his iced tea and gave Marlowe a bemused look as she continued laughing. She couldn't remember having had a better time.

* * *

><p>Juliet was <em>not<em> laughing. Shawn was on some kind of riff about vampire movies and had continued to make comments about Lassie and his 'Queen of the Night' girlfriend. He was also drinking a little more than usual, which meant that he was twice as talkative and _childish_ as ever. She had seen Carlton smack two crabs in a rather emphatic manner, and couldn't help but think that at least one of them was Shawn, and then the violinist's bow landed next to their table. Her irascible partner never had liked classical music.

"I mean, if she dyed her hair black, she'd look just like Elvira, right? Without the…uh…extra-large mammaries, of course, but even then…you think Lassie's a breast man?" Shawn giggled.

That was it. "I'm going to the bathroom. When I get back, Shawn, I will have rehearsed my 911 call and will be wearing my gloves. See if you can _divine_ what that implies for the remainder of this evening." She snatched up her purse and stalked away to the ladies' room. She stood in the line, her headache starting to actually blind her. What the _hell_ was she doing with a guy like Shawn? She looked back at him – he was playing with the utensils. _Playing __with __the __damned __utensils!_ She wasn't so much dating him as she was usually babysitting him and stroking his ego.

Ugh.

She was digging around in her purse for her lipstick when she glanced up and saw Marlowe standing behind her. "Oh. Hi!"

"Hi."

The blonde's expression was guarded, and Juliet couldn't blame her. She probably figured Juliet was in on all the nasty jokes and smirks Shawn was shooting their way all night. "I see you're having a good time with Carlton."

"Yes. He's…very interesting. Intriguing. Surprising."

"Yes, he is that," Juliet laughed. "He's very hard to know. But he's worth the effort, Marlowe."

The line moved forward and the two women stood side by side now, and Juliet was glad to see that Marlowe looked a little more relaxed.

"Have you two ever…?" Marlowe asked.

"What? Me…and Carlton? No. No, of course not. He's…well, he's…there's the age difference, really, and then there's…he's…really not my type. Plus we're partners…and I'm protesting too much. But really, no." Juliet could feel her cheeks getting hot.

"But you've wondered?"

Pink to red, Juliet thought. She couldn't help what she dreamed about sometimes. "Okay…yeah. Sometimes I _wonder_. I…I hope that doesn't bother you."

"No. It doesn't. Not really." Marlowe sighed. The line was long. "Maybe we should sneak into the men's room. I certainly don't have trouble with having to pee in unfortunate places."

"Yeah. I guess not. Prison wasn't fun?" Juliet smiled.

Marlowe laughed softly. "Wednesdays were all I had to look forward to, aside from knowing I'd get out some day."

"Oh?" Juliet studied Marlowe. "Really? What happened on Wednesdays?"

"You didn't know?"

"No. What…?"

"Carlton visited me every Wednesday," Marlowe smiled softly. "Usually in the mornings. He sent me packages, too. Books and music and stuff to make it a little easier in there. It was never easy, but it wasn't a maximum security prison, and my cellmate was relatively…well, weird, but she wasn't too bad. She had just committed insurance fraud. I never got the details, but nobody died. Just a lot of money was stolen. Anyway, Carlton sent me a chocolate Glock."

"Milk chocolate?" Juliet grinned. She could just imagine him doing something so…sweet. And odd.

"Yeah. I had to hide it from Deb." She exhaled and looked at Juliet. "You know, he's actually very funny. In a quiet, dry kind of way. He seems very serious, but he's got a little streak of…wickedness in him. I sense that he could be very, very bad, but wouldn't because he has those pesky morals."

"And those pesky blue eyes, too," Juliet said, laughing.

"That too. He looks at you with those eyes, and you just…oh God, he's just so sexy. He doesn't know he's sexy, which makes it all that much better. I won't have to be fighting anybody off."

Juliet looked across the restaurant. Shawn was still playing with his utensils. She stood on her toes and peeked over Marlowe's shoulder, spying Carlton, who was checking his cell phone for messages. "Right." She sighed. "He's really putting a lot on the line, Marlowe. I hope you'll treat his heart gently."

They finally got into the women's room, but the wait was still on. As women usually came in groups to the ladies' bog, there was much talking going on about respective dates, the food, the service, and so on, along with a great deal of touching up of makeup, adjusting of clothes, and combing of hair. Both women checked themselves in the mirror. Juliet decided she didn't care about her lipstick. Marlowe pushed her hair back a little and checked her teeth for bits of crab.

"I don't know where this will go," Marlowe told her, after making sure everything was right. "I hope it works. That's all I can do now. Just hope. I want it to work. I've never met anybody like him – it was like we just…_clicked_. I want to see what happens."

Juliet remembered Carlton's words to her, about how hope was a bastard, and could only smile softly, knowing he had spoken those words while still _reeling_. "I can tell you for sure – you will definitely never meet anybody like Carlton Lassiter. I hope it works, too. He deserves to be happy. I know he's never had much happiness in his life."

* * *

><p>Carlton was at his desk before Juliet arrived, and he gave her a disapproving look when she flopped into her chair and began struggling to log in. "Password? What's my password?"<p>

"Tardy?"

She finally remembered and managed to get clocked in within the grace period. "Okay, so I'm late!" she squawked. "Five minutes! Just five minutes!"

"Busy night?"

She frowned at him. "No."

"Weren't you and Spencer at that seafood place? Or did I just imagine that? He was half way to Snockersville when I saw you."

"He was all the way there by the end of the night," Juliet muttered. He had declared that the knife and the fork were having an affair and that the spoon was insanely jealous. Then he had tried to make out with her on his couch after she dumped him there, and for a few moments she had just _stared_ at her Glock, morality finally winning out over sheer disgust and she had left him there, singing _Shout__ It__ Out __Loud_ to the fichus.

"Hm."

She hated it when Carlton said 'hm' whenever she told him about something Shawn had done. Or hadn't done. Or should have done, which was why she didn't usually say much about Shawn in the first place, since talking about Spencer generally just annoyed her partner. Carlton's response would be just a 'hm' and she knew what he was thinking, which meant she was soon thinking the same thing and wishing she had more willpower.

"So how did it go with you and Marlowe?" she asked.

"What have you got on the Tomlinson case?" he asked.

"Nice segue there, Carlton. From drunken boyfriend to a murder."

"One does kind of lead itself to the other rather smoothly, doesn't it? Glock's nice and _clean_, right?"

She gave him an icy glare, and amusement lit up his eyes. "I was looking over the crime scene photos, of the larger footprints leading from the body to the backdoor, and I wanted you to look at them more closely."

He coughed and nodded as she handed him the photos. He peered at them for a moment, then sat up sharply. "Smaller footprints on _top_ of the larger prints."

"Right."

"Hm." He clicked his pen for a moment. "We went for a walk."

"Huh? Oh. Really?"

"Just a…walk. That's all. We talked about a few things. General things, a few specifics, and…er…so on."

"Okay. Good." She felt her heart twist. _Treat __his __heart __gently._

"Drove her home. She's…got to get her life set up again. I'm not going to interfere in that. And it'd be best if nobody really _knew_ about it. Bad enough for her reputation, to be seen with me, but cops aren't generally supposed to date parolees. I don't know if it's an actual rule, but some piss-ant with a ant-hill to piss from might make a big deal about it and…" He glanced at Juliet. "I don't want to put her through that, much less risk her having to go back, so…"

"Right. I won't say a word to anybody, Carlton, I promise."

He nodded. "Do you think maybe the killer was one person? But if that's the case, why would they change shoes, mid-murder, and for that matter, why not just take off their shoes entirely when they came in and walk out barefoot, too? Why leave prints?"

"It's all too weird," Juliet shook her head.

"Did Spencer talk to her?"

"Yes. He didn't get anything. Nada."

"Hm. Let him go to the crime scene, then. Maybe he'll pick something up. A vibe or a premonition or, preferably, a virus. I've got a meeting…budget crap. I'll see you 'round." He got up, and Juliet noticed he wasn't wearing a tie.

"Carlton?"

He drained the last of his coffee and waited.

"Where's your tie?"

"Left it at home."

"Oh."

He started to say something then, but stopped himself. He put the cup down and looked around the bullpen for a moment, thinking. She could almost see the wheels spinning as he made up his mind. "Uh…O'Hara, recently I made a decision. A momentous decision – a really big one…about my life."

Juliet stared up at him, unable to deny a tiny tremor of excitement…and worry…for him. "What decision did you make…about your life?" she asked him, keeping her voice low as two other detective walked by.

"I've decided to have one."

TBC


	3. An Uncivil War

Movie referenced: _The __Quiet __Man_. You can't go wrong with John Wayne. You just can't.

* * *

><p>Well, I'm feeling better, what with some good anti-nausea meds. I hope this chapter isn't too schmaltzy, but I kinda think this is how Marlowe thinks of Carlton. How that spells out on the show itself, I don't know. Just a gut instinct. Besides, I can't be the only one who saw Lassiter's clarity after he met Marlowe. Maybe a soothing presence in his life makes him able to concentrate more.<p>

Eh...that may just be me. :D

* * *

><p>Carlton partially tuned out the real estate agent, pondering the notion of why they always looked at your actual budget and tried to sell you a house at least three times <em>above<em> your budget. As if they expected you to be an idiot and a spendthrift at once, and would look down their noses at you when you informed them that you couldn't afford such a price. He was neither, however, and looked the woman over, taking in her blonde hair that was coiffed in such a way that, when matched to her mustard-yellow coat, made her look a lot like a parakeet. Her fingernails and her lipstick were the same plum color, which was even rather disturbing. Her mouth seemed to have been pulled together like a purse, her lower lip pooching out like a porn star after a bad facelift.

He had a tendency to picture Robert E Lee in situations like this. Like whenever he was buying a car or anything that cost a good deal of money, and shortly after his divorce had finalized. The great Confederate general would be wearing his beechnut grey uniform, his eyes sad and resigned but always noble and strong as he sat astride the similarly colored Traveller (who stepped on a nail after Lee died and perished from lockjaw, having lost his rhythm after losing his master), and would look at Carlton and say 'Are you going to let this fool do this to you? Did not your great-great-grandmother's parents' home get burned to the ground by that moral-free arsonist General Sherman's bloodthirsty soldiers, and did she not still survive and shoot three of them? Is not the rebellious Irish and Scottish blood of kings and poets coursing through your veins? Didn't your Cherokee great-great-great grandfather survive the Trail of Tears and become a landowner in Oklahoma? Your back is straight for a reason, Carlton Lassiter! There'll be no bending today! They couldn't break your ancestors and by God, they will not break you!'

This was real estate. It was also, apparently, a war of wills. He looked at Mrs Claypoole, who smiled ingratiatingly at him, then looked around the condo. It wasn't his style. He didn't like it. He looked at the agent again. "I don't want this place."

"But it's perfect for you, Mr Lassiter. It's got the right number of rooms, just like you…"

"I said I don't like it. The rooms are too small, the floor plan is all screwy, and it's too far from my work. Find me something else and give me a call, okay?" He put his sunglasses on. "I've got to go."

"But Mr Lassiter…" she said, her tone wheedling now. Irritatingly so. She had shown him six houses so far. He could sort of understand that she was desperate to just sell and get him out of her hair, but he wasn't about to bend.

"No. It's outside my budget, too. Which I gave you when I called up your agency. It's a strict budget, and I won't go a penny above it. Got it? When you've got something, we'll barter. Until then, cut the crap and stay within the numbers."

She sighed and had the nerve to look petulant. "Yes, sir."

"Good. So the next house you show me will be _within_ my budget, or I won't see it." His phone started ringing then, and he blessed O'Hara's inadvertent good timing. "Yeah? All right, all right, I'll be there." He hung up before O'Hara could say anything more. "Civil war, my ass."

* * *

><p>Pouring rain did little to improve Carlton's mood. He arrived at the station at eleven o'clock, having surprised Vick by asking for a half-day so he could do some more house-hunting. He had stunned O'Hara a week ago by saying he was looking to buy a condo, and had disappointed her immensely by refusing to say why. He hadn't even given her basic statistics on what he was looking for. Just that he was looking for something 'a little bigger' and possibly with a back yard.<p>

O'Hara was at her desk, and when he came in she handed him a small stack of papers. "Messages."

He muttered his thanks and flipped through them. One was from Marlowe – she rarely called him at work, unless something _important_ was happening. He considered calling her back, but nothing in the message sounded urgent, so he put it by his monitor and read over the others.

"So Spencer thinks the one of the killers walked _backwards_ while the second person walked over his footprints, in a kind of murderous rumba?" He scratched the back of his neck. "Still doesn't make sense, about the mud. Why track mud in the house and leave two such obviously different prints?"

"I have had a vision!"

Spencer came bouncing into the bullpen, displaying that raccoon-eating-through-chicken-wire grin of his that made Carlton need to do an hour or so of shooting at the gun range more often than even he thought was entirely healthy.

"Please, expound on that," Carlton muttered.

"Huh?"

"Expand?"

Another blank stare.

"_Elaborate_?"

"Geesh, why not just use that word first time around?" Spencer asked, looking disgruntled. "Anyhow. I think there were two intended killers, while only one did the actual shooting."

"Hm."

Juliet peered around Spencer at Carlton, raising her eyebrows.

"I think that Mrs Tomlinson hired the one guy to do the killing, but someone else walked in as he was doing it, and they left _together_. He walked backwards, to the door, and the other killer – or would-have-been killer – walked on his footprints. Thus, a set of prints on the bigger prints."

Carlton pondered this, not wanting to admit that he had been thinking the same thing, last night, while sitting with Marlowe, watching _A__ Fistful __of __Dollars_. It had seemed farfetched, but weirder things had happened in the course of a murder, but he had forgotten about the case when the oven timer dinged and they had tucked into a perfect roast beef and potatoes. "But…" Carlton leaned forward, giving Spencer a cold look. "The larger set of prints lead _from_ the body to the back door, not from the door to the body. You're saying he walked _backwards_ into the room and shot Lloyd Tomlinson?"

"Uh…well, yes…"

"Because it would be kind of hard to miss, Spencer. Tomlinson might have been awfully stupid to be sleeping with Miss Whoever in the sixth guest bedroom upstairs, but surely he would have noticed a man walking backwards into his living room and leaving big red footprints on the Berber carpet and then shooting him. And the killer would have to be really careful about stepping directly on his own prints, too, as he walked backwards to the back door."

"Well, that's what I'm seeing in my visions," Shawn said, looking a little nettled.

"Yeah. Marx envisioned economic equity through socialism, but that whole system also loathes, despises and spits upon the human soul. Go play with your crystal ball, Karnak. We'll do the actual work around here." He gestured to Juliet. "Would you hand me those photos of the prints, please?"

Juliet handed them over, and Carlton noted a bit of tension between the psuedo-psychic and his partner. He didn't let himself dwell on it, though. He and O'Hara had some legwork to do now.

* * *

><p>O'Hara was fidgeting. Carlton checked his cell phone for messages, but Marlowe hadn't left one. He drew in a breath – was she angry at him for not calling back? He had told her that it was best that she not call him except for emergencies, and to not call his cell at all while he was on duty. It wasn't as though he would <em>mind<em> hearing her voice, but it would also be distracting, and as much as he enjoyed talking to her (and hell, hearing _her_ talk), he still had a job to do and he had to be focused.

They had paused at a local gas station and picked up taquitos for lunch. Chicken and cheese, a bit spicy, and they did terrible things to O'Hara's stomach. He could hear it grumbling its protests now. Not that he would comment on the matter, because women did not appreciate questions about their bodily functions. They also did not appreciate being asked how old they were, how much they weighed or when they were due.

"Am I supposed to believe those things aren't making _you_ sick?" Juliet finally asked him.

"Yep. They were pretty good, actually." Red light. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His partner glared at him.

"Any theories?"

Amazing, how they could so easily take a train of thought and jump to another track, without missing a beat. It was almost like being an old married couple. "I have one."

"Okay. Dish."

"I think the girlfriend did it."

"The girlfriend?"

"Yep."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because…well…" The light turned green and he continued forward, until they got to the next red light. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "The footprints from the door were smaller, right? Then they're bigger from the body to the back door. I _think_ the killer switched shoes. Did you see the photos of the larger prints? There's drops of mud on either side of them – like as if the killer was _carrying_ a muddy pair of boots as he or she was walking out, and there was…drippage. What I'm still curious about is why the killer would even bother with something like that. Plus there's the pair of prints over the larger pair of boots." He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "Far-fetched?"

"Shorter-fetched than Shawn's theory," she smiled. "I just can't imagine somebody walking backwards over their own prints after shooting someone."

"Me neither. And all those drugs Mrs Tomlinson's on – painkillers, mainly, but there's also Valium and Ambien, for God's sake – she's a walking backstreet pharmacy. You know how people can act while on Ambien. One minute you're asleep, the next you're killing a man in Reno just to watch him die, or you're whipping the pool boy with a tennis racket. I can't help thinking she was involved in some way. Maybe after the fact, but I just figure she was…_aware_, if only in a drugged-out, seeing musical notes floating to the ceiling kind of way."

"Hm." She closed her eyes. "Got any peppermints?"

"Why would I have peppermints, O'Hara?" he asked, giving her a blank look. She remembered him telling her he was allergic to mint. He had said that just before she had thrown him that _disastrous_ surprise birthday party. Oddly enough, he had forgiven her for it. Eventually. He still got a strange twitch whenever he saw a birthday cake or heard someone singing 'Happy Birthday'. In fact, the last time they had thrown a birthday party for Buzz, he had hidden in the men's room.

"Okay. So do you think we should question Mrs Tomlinson again?" she asked. They were headed back to the Tomlinson mansion, and were turning onto the street.

"Not at this point. I suspect she doesn't remember anything. Plus, she creeped me out."

"Does that house have video surveillance?" she asked.

"Yes, but the alarm was off, and that also turned off the video feed indoors and outdoors. No video from six in the morning until about ten in the morning, when the wife turned it back on again. I got to watch myself drink coffee in the living room, and let me tell you, the camera doesn't add ten pounds to me – it adds ten _years_." They turned into the mansion's driveway. "They did a full canvas of the neighborhood for that 'willowy blonde' but they got bupkiss aside from that guy across the road." He parked and turned off the engine. Shawn and Gus were already standing there, sipping coffee and kibitzing with a couple of uniformed cops.

"Hey, Jules, Lassie," Shawn greeted them. "Lassie-face! How's it going with the Queen of Cell Block C?"

Carlton ignored the fake psychic and walked past him and into the mansion. Gus gave his friend a vaguely disgusted look and followed Juliet inside. The two uniformed cops followed them in and stood guard at the door. The Berber carpet – ruined beyond any kind of restoration - was being pulled up, having been examined carefully by the CSI's, each muddy footprint, drop of mud and the entire pool of blood having been cut out and sent to the lab for exhaustive study. One of the CSI's walked over to Carlton – she was an attractive brunette of about thirty-five, and she eyed the detective with interest. Juliet glanced at her partner, and noted that he was _sans_ tie again, and that the cut of his suit was considerably…sharper. Was that Hugo Boss? Surely not…

"Detective Lassiter? Detective Melissa Hardwicke, SBPD CSI unit."

"Yeah. Anything of note?"

"Yes, actually. We've found, from the tread of the two pairs of boots, that just one person wore both pairs."

"Hm."

"Question is, why would the killer change boots?"

"Maybe they're trying to throw us off by getting us to wonder too much about it?" he suggested. Hardwicke raised an eyebrow. "Any info on the boots?"

"Same brand. One a size six, the other a size eleven. But there's a third pair of tracks, superimposed over the large pair of prints, and they didn't actually add more mud to the prints at all. They were a size _seven_."

"Could this case get any weirder?" Juliet asked.

"Found the boots?" Carlton asked.

"No. The house and the yard have been searched thoroughly, and the garage. You were right about the killer carrying the first pair of muddy boots, by the way. And I agree – the killer is trying to throw us off with a red herring, with the larger set of prints. It's a false lead." Hardwicke held up the series of photos of the larger prints. "See how they get lighter and lighter as they reach the back door? My own guess is that the killer squished them around in the mud outside before bringing them in here, came upon Tomlinson at the fireplace, shot him, changed boots, and carried the first pair out, with the third person possibly just following in their footsteps."

"So why no drops of mud from the front door to the body?" Carlton asked.

Hardwicke retrieved the photos of the smaller prints, tapping her finger on spots alongside the footprints. "Drops of mud. Only three, and pretty small, but we did find them. At first we thought they were just stains from something else."

Spencer was trying to edge closer, but the two uniformed cops were apparently on orders to keep him away from the conversation between the three detectives. He was blocked and firmly pointed back to his place beside Gus, which he clearly did not appreciate.

"Wouldn't the killer have to go to the couch to get the pillow?" Juliet asked. "The prints lead straight from the door to the body. It's a beeline – no divergence to the couch at all."

Shawn, excited, called from his corner of the room, "Somebody handed him the pillow!"

"Did you just say _divergence_? What are you, Miss Marple? Anyway, Spencer's probably right about that," Carlton nodded. "And it's strange that the killer made no effort to take anything from the house, except the pillow. Which he or she dumped in the back yard, under some leaves."

"All we have to do now is find the killer."

"Killer's probably long gone by now."

Mrs Tomlinson appeared in the doorway then, and she was swaying a little as she walked. In fact, she was listing a bit to starboard as she made her way over to the trenchcoat convention in her living room, and she was carrying a tumbler of amber liquid in her diamond-encrusted hand. "Gentleman…and ladies. Oh…my…Hugo Boss…" she said, put her hand on Carlton's chest. "Ooh…very nice. Brings out those gorgeous eyes!"

"Uh..."

Juliet saw Hardwicke's eyebrow lift as she studied Carlton.

"You're wearing Hugo Boss, Carlton?" Juliet asked.

"Um…Mrs…uh…"

"Tomlinshun," the widow said, smiling.

"Where is your husband's killer?"

She giggled.

"You know who killed him, right?" Carlton asked. "You witnessed the murder. In fact, you were even in on it, weren't you? You handed them the pillow…helped with the boots, too, right?"

She waggled the glass of whiskey at him. "I wanna shee my arto-…my attro…my lawyer."

Shawn's shoulders slumped. "He stole my reveal!"

* * *

><p>Melissa Hardwicke and Carlton were sitting in the interrogation room, attempting to get some kind of coherent statement from Mrs Tomlinson. He ran a hand through his hair and began rubbing his temples. The widow's head was currently on the table and she was happily humming 'Blues for Dixie', which Carlton thought was a rather good song but kind of inappropriate to the current situation.<p>

Her attorney was sitting beside her, also rubbing his forehead and clearly wishing he had some of the Jack his client had been inhaling all morning.

Juliet and Shawn were watching from the other side of the mirror. He had been remarkably quiet as they listened to the interview, and was still keeping his yap shut, which was a great blessing. Their discussion of the night before was still apparently bothering him, and still had him pretty subdued.

"I think we should just take her to a cell and let her…dry out," Carlton finally said. The attorney nodded, looking relieved.

"I quite agree. Lydia…Lydia, it's time to get up. We're going to…uh…put you in a nice room where you can relax and get some sleep."

"Okay. Can I call my lawyer?"

The attorney sighed. "Sure. Let's go."

"I really need to talk to my lawyer. I seem to be in a little _trouble_!"

Juliet sighed and leaned against the glass, glad for the coolness of it and hoping it would alleviate her headache. She watched Carlton writing notes in the file, his mouth tightening as he scratched something out, looking a little irritated.

"So you're the SBPD head detective?" Hardwicke asked him. "I expected you to be a little older."

"Yeah." He slapped the file closed and stood up. Juliet was startled when his cell phone started ringing, and she and Shawn both looked at each other when they heard the theme from _The __Good __the __Bad __and __the __Ugly_, instead of _Cops_. Hardwicke took a sip of her coffee and smiled. "Hello? Oh. Yeah. Sorry I didn't call you back. Had a lot of crap to deal with, as usual. What is it?" Carlton sat on the table, his back to Hardwicke, and casually crossed his ankles. _Good__ God, __he __looks __good,_ Juliet thought. "Really? Well, with one phone call, I can have him assassinated, but unfortunately I can't do that _legally_. I'll see if I can get anybody at the CIA. Yeah, I'll call you back later. Right. Yeah. Bye."

"Wife?" Hardwicke asked.

"Eh? Oh. No." Carlton put his phone back in his pocket. He grabbed his jacket. Hardwicke sat back in her chair, taking another sip of her coffee.

"Interesting case," she said.

"Yeah. If she can even remember what the killer looked like, we might be able to extradite him…or her. Probably in Canada by now."

"Maybe." Hardwicke stood up. "Um…I don't usually do this, but…maybe you'd like to join me for a drink tonight?"

"Wha…huh? Oh. Uh…" He looked bewildered, and Juliet felt a surge of sympathy for her partner. He had no social skills, and was more accustomed to being shot down and even humiliated by women, beginning with his mother and all the way through his ex-wife. The notion of having to refuse a woman's advances was obviously something entirely foreign to him. What was worse, she was going to have to watch him struggle through this alone. "I…I mean, thanks, but…I…I'm…"

"Already involved?" Hardwicke raised her eyebrow.

"Yes. Yes, I am."

She nodded. "Okay. Just thought I'd take my chance."

"It's…I…yeah. Right. Okay."

"It was very nice to meet you," she said.

"It was? Oh. Okay. Right. Uh…same…here?"

"I suspect I'll be meeting you again, tonight. While I'm alone in the bathtub, most likely." She grinned at him and left the room. Juliet watched her partner sit back on the table, running a hand through his hair. He had no clue. The poor man had _no__ clue_.

* * *

><p>"She asked me out for a drink!"<p>

Marlowe paused, mid-stride, as she was making her way back to the couch. She was at Carlton's apartment, and they had just enjoyed a leg of lamb together. He was an amazing cook, she had discovered, and since she was a definite omnivore, she was enjoying fabulous meals of various types of meats and vegetables (never shellfish) ever since she had been paroled. Most were relatively simple fare, but he had been expanding into unfamiliar but ultimately delightful territory lately, cookingwise. He had admitted that he still couldn't make himself buy a lobster, mainly because he had seen an article about how lobsters were related to cockroaches and he also wasn't too sure he could go through the trauma of actually _killing_ one and eating it. 'Murderers and rapists, I can shoot with unreserved glee. Ocean-dwelling cockroaches…I'm not so sure. Maybe it's the green ooze...'

"What did you say?" she asked, sitting down beside him.

He had stretched his legs out, stocking feet on the coffee table. The TV was on, but paused right in the middle of Father Peter telling the crowd to cheer like Protestants. The fire was crackling, and the room was warm and only dimly lit. She cracked open a bottle of beer for him, and another for herself.

"I said, 'Sure, and what hotel do we go to afterwards'? Geesh, what you think I said? I said I was…uh…attached."

Marlowe smiled. She had had a rough day at work. A filmmaker, whose name she had not been willing to reveal to Carlton because he would immediately drive to the studio and shoot the bastard, had had the gall to grope her. He had actually grabbed her ass and asked her what she was doing that night. She had informed him that she was going to see her boyfriend, a big, mean, bad-tempered, blue-eyed cop who enjoyed shooting assholes. That had put the filmmaker off fairly well, but it still left her shaken.

She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. "But you solved that case?"

"More or less. The widow is still sobering up. There's at least four different types of drugs coursing through her veins, plus most of a bottle of Jack. So it might be a day or two before she's coherent enough to tell us who did the actual shooting. And then it's liver treatment and psychological assessment and blah-dee-blah…" He rubbed his face. "I was never so glad to just leave that damned place and come home."

She rubbed her foot on the carpet. She and Carlton had been seeing each other for almost two weeks now. Most of her nights, after work, were spent at his apartment, and she rarely got back home before midnight. Her roommates seemed kind of amused about her relationship with a cop, but were also pretty accepting of him, even if he remained very standoffish with them. He was also still very _cautious_ with her, and she tried to tell herself she understood, but she was a little frustrated with him.

Emotional manipulation not being her forte, she decided they should have a little discussion about where they were, currently. Make-out sessions on his couch, with buttons undone and the need for a cold shower when she got home, were leaving her in a state of confusion and elation at once. She was sure of how she felt about him. How he felt about her, however, was something his reserved nature was still nervously two-stepping around.

"So…" She placed her hand on his chest, and she felt him stiffen a little, before he finally settled. Nerves, fear, uncertainty…arousal. He reminded her of a colt, sometimes. An abused and angry colt that didn't trust anybody any more, and was watching for the whip to come out again.

"So?"

"Where is this going, Carlton?"

He swallowed.

"I'm not going to push you into anything, if that's what you're wondering. I just want to know what you're after."

"Oh."

"Where do you see us going?"

He stared at her, then took a shaky swig of his beer. "We almost went to bed…on our first date. That probably…well, definitely…would have been a mistake."

She nodded. "I agree. A very…happy mistake, but a mistake nonetheless."

He stared at her, bewildered, then nodded. "Your brother told me you were sweet on me," he blurted out, and looked embarrassed.

"I am," she smiled. "Very sweet on you."

"Oh." His hand went to tug at his tie, but it wasn't there. She thought about Robert on _Everybody __Loves __Raymond_, and how he would do that weird 'crazy chin' thing, and figured that maybe Carlton wore ties to help cope with his own nervous tics. Yet he also seemed much more relaxed without the blasted things, and was far more apt to just sit back and veg with her in front of the TV, or just _talk_, when he wasn't so formal. It was only when she started asking him personal questions that his hand would seek the phantom tie and he would look uneasy. He was not comfortable in his own skin. Yet.

"Do you know why?"

"I haven't a clue," he said, and she sighed, shaking her head.

"Because you're kind and want to be on the right side of things. You have a good heart and the best of intentions. Because you're honest and strong and a little grumpy and commanding and you often say the wrong thing, but you're also capable of saying the right thing at the right time and making a girl _melt_." She saw his eyes widen, and she smiled. "You know, I've dated actors, athletes, lawyers, doctors, and rich, handsome men…"

"So now you're going in the opposite direction…" he nodded.

"No. I'm going in the _right_ direction. And I never cared about the money. Eh…it's nice to have around, yes, but it's also just paper. And the good-looking guys generally never grew up, because they could coast on their looks and so-called charm, which generally just got annoying – like that Spencer twit your partner is dating, for instance. A lot of women are that way, too, by the way. Plus, you're incredibly sexy. A little odd, yes, but…I mean, what other man would send a girl a chocolate Glock?"

He reddened a little. "Please. I'm not sexy. And…and the chocolate Glock was…a really…bad…joke." He was looking at her mouth, and she could feel his heartbeat quickening. "And…and I really want this to work…" He looked down. "I'm just such a wreck…a miserable, lonely wreck…and I just…like you. I like everything about you. Everything." He swallowed nervously. "You're in for a lot of trouble, with me."

"I can handle trouble. In fact, I rather enjoy it," she said, giving him a wicked grin.

He looked totally embarrassed then, but she shook her head before he could protest again, pressing her finger to his lips, and kissed him before he could say anything more to refute her opinion. By then, it didn't matter very much any more.

TBC


	4. Holidaze

This chapter just went wild and wouldn't stop, like a Congressional budget hearing. Anyway. I found it amusing.

* * *

><p>"Gus, don't be a freezer-burned strawberry popsicle," Shawn said irritably as they stood in line at the Lava Java stand by the beach. "We're just a little off our game, that's all."<p>

"Off _our_ game? Of your game, maybe. Not _ours_. Lassie and Jules have been solvin' crimes right and left, while you've just been standing there trying to come up with your first crackpot theory and spilling pineapple smoothie on the floor."

"I still think he put something in my pineapple smoothie," Shawn grouched. He glanced at his partner, who ordered a straight black coffee. Shawn ordered a mocca mocca frappachino and they made their way to a table. The outdoor café was crowded, in spite of the crispy cool December evening, and a live band was setting up nearby, sounding the speakers and making everybody flinch. The two young men sat down at the last unoccupied table.

Suddenly, Gus started trying to signal to Shawn with his eyes, shifting his gaze to the left and back to Shawn. Finally, his friend just kicked Shawn in the ankle. "Look."

Lassie was seated by himself at a table, drinking coffee and reading over some papers. What made his appearance there doubly surprising was what he was wearing: jeans, a simple gray T-shirt, a warm-looking but battered old leather jacket, and leather boots. He was absorbed in what he was reading and thus hadn't seen either of the two men. Before Shawn could call out to him, Gus shushed him, seeing a young couple approach the detective. The woman was heavily pregnant, to the point of waddling and knocking things over with her stomach, and the man's hand seemed to have been attached to her swollen belly by glue.

"Sir, can we take this extra chair?" the man asked Carlton, his other hand resting on the back of the empty chair at his table.

"Ah…a young couple, expecting a baby, in need of some help, and so close to Christmas, too." He peered around the woman. "But…no." He waved them away, which they took fairly well. He smiled as Marlowe sat down opposite him, huffing a little. She was carrying several shopping bags and looked pretty well worn out.

"Christmas can be so _violent_!" she said. "Can you believe a grown woman would elbow another person out of the way and then step on another woman's foot just to get to the gift she wanted to buy?"

"Somebody did that to you?" he asked, his expression clouding.

"No, but those two women will get over it soon enough, and I don't think they could recognize me. I was wearing my sunglasses." She waved to a waiter, who came over. "Just hot chocolate, please. With some marshmallows! Have you done any shopping yet?"

"For what?"

Marlowe studied him, and seemed to be counting backwards from five. "Christmas, Carlton."

"Oh. Right. Uh…not really. No."

She shook her head, smiling affectionately. "You're the soul of sentimentality, aren't you?"

"Who would ever say such a thing?" He shuffled the papers.

"What's that?" she asked, indicating the stack of pages in front of him.

"Specs on my new condo."

"You bought it?" she asked, looking excited. "Really? Which one?"

"The two-story one. With all the big rooms and the fenced back yard."

"Oh, that's great! I liked the pictures. Can I see them again?"

He handed the pages to her, and Marlowe perused the documents, looking more and more excited with each picture of the roomy condo. "Oh, wow, and you low-balled them!" she said, when she saw the numbers.

"I think the sight of my gun might have made the prior owners a little jittery, but I did get a good deal on it. They were eager to move out, for some reason, and they're leaving behind most of the furniture, too. It's almost move-in ready."

"You're moving, Lassie?"

Shawn had crept up on them, sidling up to their table without making a sound and dodging around other patrons until he reached them. He was at Marlowe's shoulder, looking down at the papers. Marlowe flipped them over immediately and fixed Shawn with a cool stare. Spencer actually took a step backwards, seeing an air of command in that woman that matched Lassiter's. He studied the couple, realizing that they fit each other like puzzle pieces while yet being complete misfits elsewhere.

"None of your business, Spencer," Carlton said, his jaw tightening. "Go play in another sandbox."

"Sure. I only play with the cool kids. Miss Vizzini," he said, bowing deeply.

"Vicchellio," Carlton corrected, eyes narrowed to two black-lashed blue slits. Marlowe just shook her head, looking bored.

"Right. And do you trust a Sicilian when _death_ is on the line, Lassie?"

"My family was actually from northern Italy, then Louisiana," Marlowe said. She looked at Carlton. "They were bakers. In Italy, I mean. My father was a mechanic, and I'm sure my mother is currently back in Metairie, beating something back into a pot."

"So…Italian, French and…adventurously omnivorous?"

"It's not called roadkill for nothing," Marlowe answered with a mischievous smile.

Lassiter actually looked amused. Spencer ducked down to look at the detective's boots. "Where's the gentleman's brogues, Lassie?"

"Beat it, Spencer…unless you want to find out whether or not I'm armed."

Spencer eyed them both, and finally shrugged and returned to his table, sitting down with a disappointed huff. Gus glared at him. "You seem to keep forgetting that Lassie is _always_ armed, Shawn."

* * *

><p>They were walking on the boardwalk, enjoying the brisk winter night and debating going onto the arcade and trying some of the games. Marlowe liked the cold – it meant she could get warm later, and lately, she was getting warm with Carlton. Sitting on his couch, curled up against him, watching an old episode of <em>Frasier<em> or, for pure amusement, some old Japanese monster movie. He had surprised her by admitting that he liked _Eureka_ and didn't actually like _CSI_ that much ("I like _CSI:__New__York_ best I suppose, but sooner or later it'll be _CSI:__ Dubuque_ and then we have to admit they're running out of ideas."). He hated Woody Allen movies and anything on Lifetime, but indulged her taste for most of the network sitcoms and _Dancing__ With __the__ Stars_, and had even endured sitting through _General __Hospital_ one day while he was off. She recorded every episode, and was still catching up following her four months in prison. He kept asking her who the hell those people were, but she had caught him looking rather intrigued by all the goings-on in Port Charles. "The balding guy that looks like James Cameron's even more idiotic brother…women get all hot and bothered over _him_?"

She saw a booth that offered several large, garish stuffed animals as prizes and dragged him over. "Look – target shooting!"

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and eyed the squirrely-looking little man running the booth. Carlton immediately recognized that the man had a glass eye, and that the other was rather…lazy, and that actually made him queasy. He looked around the booth, sizing it up, knowing that the games along the arcade were generally rigged. He pulled out his wallet and extracted the five dollars required for ten shots, clutching it in his hand. If he popped all ten balloons, he would be schlepping a giant teddy bear through the arcade. Worse yet, it was a teddy bear that had apparently been dressed by Elton John back during his psychedelic days, when he licked up lines of cocaine and commonly sang in Welsh. If he only hit one balloon, he'd only have to carry, perhaps, a tiny stuffed gecko.

Marlowe raised her eyebrows at him and looked at the giant teddy bear.

"You're kidding, right?"

"I like the teddy bear," she admitted. "It's…definitely a conversation piece."

"In the sense of the conversation starting with, 'My _God_, that's an ugly teddy bear' and ending with the person psychologically scarred forever?"

"Carlton…" she said, adding a gentle plea to her voice.

Finally, he handed the fiver over and picked up the gun. He didn't spot Spencer or Guster coming up behind him, and didn't see their wide eyes when he said, 'Go ahead, punk. Make my day' and popped ten balloons in a row, with full police stance, left leg bending a little to compensate for the gun's poor balance. He blew imaginary smoke from the muzzle and put it down, and Glass Squirrel Eye took the giant bear down, handing it over. Carlton staggered just a bit at the surprising heft of the bear, but he tucked it under his arm just the same and they walked away, heading toward the popcorn stand, Marlowe laughing helplessly.

Shawn and Gus followed them, in spite of Gus's trepidations about following the cranky detective. He suspected Lassie would be even crankier if he knew he was being watched. But he was clearly more focused on his date, and from the way she was leaning into him, laughing and gently teasing him, she was pretty well focused on him, too. "Why are we doing this, exactly?" he asked Shawn.

"Because I simply cannot believe that Lassieface has a hot chick as a girlfriend. I'm trying to figure out if he's drugging her, or if it's coercion."

"It's neither, Shawn. She likes him, he likes her. It's that simple."

Carlton bought a large bucket of popcorn and they made their way to a bench, the detective lugging the bear – now named Elton – with a look of aggrieved determination on his face. He plopped the bear down on the bench and sat down beside it, stretching his legs out, rubbing his knee and wincing, and Marlowe sat down beside him, prettily smoothing her skirt as she did so. She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder and snuggling in.

"I suppose he can be a good chaperone," Carlton grumbled. She laughed, clapping her hands. "And like all chaperones, a bucket of cold water on any and all romance. Next time, bring along a duenna. A fat one. With a mustache."

"Speaking of romance," Marlowe said, sitting up straight. "I've been thinking…about…how things are progressing between us."

"Oh. Okay." He sat up straight then, his ease of a few moments ago vanishing. "What…what did I do? I did something wrong? What was it? I don't mind the bear, really. It's just heavy, and my knee…I did something else, then, right? Whatever it was, I'm sorry…"

"You've done nothing wrong, Carlton. I just wanted to talk about…well, I think we should discuss the _guidelines_."

"Guidelines?" He stared at her as though the word did not exist in his vocabulary.

"Yes. Well, not so much guidelines as just…how we really shouldn't rush things. I mean, how many relationships are just totally ruined by the couple rushing off to bed? I think that, with our current situation – my being on parole, in particular – it would be best if we waited for the…uh…physical side of things. We have all the time in the world, right, and I don't want to rush things."

"Oh. Right. Right." He ran a hand through his hair. "I…I see…right. I agree."

"You do?"

"Well, you're the woman, so last time I checked the Dating Manual, you let the woman set the rules. Otherwise, you're kind of a…jerk."

"Well, in my Dating Manual, it's a mutual agreement. But you're okay with waiting?"

"Of course!" He couldn't help it that his voice rose an octave and that his hands were now clenched into fists. Or that his head was now pounding.

* * *

><p>Carlton drove Marlowe to her house, helped her carry Elton inside, was relatively polite to Lucien, and then sat in his car for a few moments, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. It took some careful prying to finally get them to relax and let go, and he sat there, the radio inconveniently playing Beyonce Knowles' version of <em>Fever<em>. He switched it off let his head drop to the headrest, breathing slowly, trying to calm himself down.

He was not generally a conniption-fit-pitching sort of man. He didn't throw tantrums, scream, throw things, or start speaking in tongues when thwarted. Marlowe was being _reasonable_. She was absolutely right in wanting to take things slowly. His rational and honorable side was agreeing with her one-hundred percent. He would endure more cold showers and longer morning jogs and more time at the shooting range, obliterating all kinds of things (yesterday, it was a pineapple Spencer had left on his desk as a joke). He would let her set the rules, so far as…_that_ went. It wasn't as though he had anybody else lining up for a chance to sleep with him, anyway, and he was hardly a prize. Then again, Victoria, and later, Lucinda had both appeared to enjoy and rather appreciate his…_abilities_, if their moaning, wide eyes and astonished post-coital expressions were anything to go by. Nonetheless, the fact that he hadn't had sex in _six __freaking__ years_ was, however, starting to get on his nerves.

Making sure he wasn't being watched, Carlton clenched his fists, squeezed his eyes shut, and gave in to the side of him that just wanted some goddamn _sex_ and needed to let out some of that energy. He began stomping on the ground, spewing forth several vile curse words and stream of _damndamndamndamndamn_s and even making up a few new curse words as he went along, until the tantrum had passed. When he finished, he was breathless, his hair was messed up, and he knew his face was red, but for God's sake, he was only human. Flesh and blood, and _horny_. Scared out of his wits. Jumping out without a parachute. Confused and frustrated and running a constant low fever.

Crazy in love.

Lassiter scrambled back into his car and drove home, paying no heed at all to speed limits, and arrived at his new condo at just a little after midnight. He dropped the keys three times before finally managing to get them into the lock, and finally stumbled inside. Boxes were still everywhere, and he hadn't even started unpacking.

Upstairs in the master suite, he glared at the big, heavy oak bedstead passed down from his distant ancestor, Muscum T Lassiter, who had been conceived, was born and finally died in it, likely screaming invective against the world. The bed was huge, heavy, and priceless - mahogany with ebony inlay and carvings of scary, unrecognizable creatures on the headboard. He had slept in that bed as a child, and had run his fingers over the carvings, trying to figure out what they were. One was definitely a dodo, the other a passenger pigeon, and the other looked like a drawing he had seen of the Roc from _The __Arabian __Nights_. The rest of the carvings were beyond even his vivid eight-year-old imagination and gave him nightmares. Yet he had put the bed in his bedroom. The other bed – the one that creeped him out the most – was in the guest bedroom.

The old bed that had been passed down from his great-great-grandmother, the Georgia belle whose family home had been burned down by the Yankees, to his great-grandmother (who put it on a Conestoga wagon and hauled it over the Rockies to what eventually became Hollywood), his grandmother (who refinished it and ruined its value forever), his mother (who hated it) and finally, to him (not to the rightful female heir, Lauren, whose marriage to a _Hispanic_ had greatly disappointed the vicious old bat). If he never had a daughter – and things didn't look terribly promising to that end right now – he would give it to Lauren some day. She would likely find it rather amusing.

He had pulled it out of storage – there was no use telling his mother yet – and had spent most of last night assembling it in the master bedroom. It was a king size bed, very tall, and it had features to it that, until now, he hadn't remembered. Now it was coming back to him, in little bits and pieces.

He went upstairs and contemplated the bed in the guest bedroom. It was, in fact, a foldaway bed, and he wondered what loss of her sanity his great-great-grandmother had endured in 1877 to have purchased the damned thing in Atlanta. It didn't even fold up completely to the wall, for one thing, and he wondered if it ever had. The foot of the bed would - due to a serious of mysterious seismological or even meteorological reactions – begin to rise up from the ground, until it was at about a forty-five degree angle from the floor, while the little springs would click and snap and _whirr_ and just generally scare the holy bejeezus out of the bed's occupant, if he or she was actually awake at the time.

The most unfortunate thing about it was that it tended to do this while an unsuspecting person was in the bed and trying to sleep. To wake up with your head pressed into the headboard and your frozen, numb toes pointed at the light fixture could cause spectacular reactions in even the most phlegmatic members of his family. And since no one in the Lassiter family could be remotely described as 'phlegmatic', he was now recalling several wild-eyed relatives dragging themselves into the kitchen the morning after a night in this bed, carrying their suitcases and leaving in a chilly huff, never to be seen or heard from again.

Not that that was a bad thing. He had little dealings with his relatives, genealogically close or far, and if his mother ever showed up, he'd park her in that bed for the night and look forward to seeing her leave in a similar huff. He might put Lauren and Raul in the guest bedroom/office, and Peter would fit in the fourth, if they deigned to visit him at all, but he doubted he'd see them until some time after hell froze over, because Lauren was busy and Raul didn't really like him. Peter did, he recalled. His nephew actually seemed to think his Uncle Carlton was kind of…nice.

It had taken an all-nighter to put the bed together, three days ago. He had even considered calling O'Hara and asking her to come over and help, because God knew she would be intrigued by it. The headboard had a painting of Medusa on it, for one thing, and he had nearly had a stroke when he had pulled the sheet off. The eyes of the woman, with the snakes curling around her head, bored into him every time he looked at it and he wondered how in hell anybody ever got conceived in this bed. Apparently, his great-grandmother had been born in this bed (the mattress, thank God, was long gone), and so had his grandmother.

Carlton had finally hung a piece of mosquito netting over Medusa and left it at that.

He had taken on the task of putting the bed together himself, though. His back still hurt from the hauling and the struggling to get the metal part of the frame into the headboard's slots, and after freaking out over the painting on the headboard, he had gone downstairs and drank a large glass of Jack, to recover. By four in the morning, he had the TV up and running, hooked up to satellite, and he watched _Heartbreak__ Ridge_. By six in the morning, he had the internet going and was reading an article about up and coming two-year olds debuting at Hollywood Park and went out. When he'd gotten home that night, his mind was clear and he had seven thousand three hundred sixty four dollars in his pocket, from picking all the top three finishers in all eight races at the track. He had called Marlowe and they had gone to dinner at a little Irish/Italian pub and listened to a tiny man sing _Danny __Boy_. Then they had debated over who was the better singer – Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra, with Marlowe plugging for Deano and the tiny man.

The mattress and box springs had been delivered while he was at the station, and Carlton risked more back trouble by wrestling them onto the bed. He pondered the bed for a moment, wondering if it would make a late-night lift if he tried to sleep there, and finally he decided against it. It was just too exhausting now. He found the old quilt his father's mother had given him as a wedding present, dug around in a box for a sheet, and carried them down to the couch. He undressed hurriedly, shivering in the cold, and flopped onto the couch wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and a few more gray hairs. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

><p>A noise – a thump – woke him at the crack of dawn and he shot out of the bed, reaching for his gun, but he wasn't wearing his holster and the gun was on the mantelpiece. He looked around the room, momentarily confused, and ran his hands through his hair. He was about to head upstairs to see if he could find any clothes when the doorbell rang. "What the <em>hell<em>?" Not bothering to even see if he could find his shirt or a bathrobe, he flung the door open.

A young, rather pretty redhead was standing there in a yellow dress right out of _The __Stepford __Wives_, carrying what looked like a bundt cake and smiling broadly. Her eyes widened a little when she saw his state of undress. "Hi!" she finally said, in a high-pitched, rather squeaky voice.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

She was staring at his chest. "I…I'm Dahlia. I live next door."

"Really."

"I made this cake yesterday, to bring over to welcome you to our little community, but you were gone all day. So I'm bringing it now, because I noticed your car was still here this morning."

"Ah." He made no move to take the cake. He just glared at her. He was in no mood to start bonding with the neighbors. What he wanted was coffee, but he couldn't remember what box the pot was in. There were boxes everywhere, and frankly he wondered if some of them hadn't bred overnight, because there seemed to be more than he recalled actually packing.

"Mind if I come in and put the cake in the kitchen?" she finally asked.

"Uh…er…yeah. Okay. Whatever. I need to get ready for work…"

"What do you do?" she asked as she passed him and made her way to the kitchen. He scratched his neck, wishing she would leave but sensing that she might try to scope him out, or worse, case the place.

"I'm a detective."

"Oh? Really? With the police?"

He sighed. He had no reason to be sarcastic to her. She had brought him a bundt cake, which he didn't really want, and was probably just being nice. Maybe he'd take the cake to Marlowe. If she didn't want it, her roommates would probably consume it in five seconds. If that didn't pay off, he would take it to the station.

"Yes."

"Oh, how exciting! You chase down criminals and stuff?"

"Right."

She put the cake on the kitchen counter and looked around. "I hope you like this place. The people who lived here before – the Donaldsons – they were always so noisy. Yelling at each other, throwing things – we all wondered what was going on, and then one day they were...well, the police never did find out what happened."

"Right, sure…" His brow furrowed. "The police?"

"Yes. Well, I'll see you around. There's all sorts of really lovely activities in our neighborhood. Bridge and canasta clubs, and in the summer we have pool and barbecue parties and there's a little outdoor amphitheatre in the park where we have amateur theatricals and concerts…"

"I'd rather have my toes chewed off by weasels, and what about the police?"

"Well…this place has been unoccupied for eight years, until last summer. Mr Peters went sort of…_crazy_ one day and sort of…killed himself after trying to kill his wife and son."

He thought about the two beds upstairs. Either one of them could drive even the stablest of men crazy. Just putting them together had given him a headache that had made him look for an axe and a door to bust through.

"I see." He remembered his brief meeting with Mrs Peters, who had been a rather hollow-eyed creature who kept staring at his Glock and wouldn't let her son get more than two feet away from her side. She had had long, long fingers and big, nuclear accident teeth that didn't seem to fit inside her mouth.

"I'll be going then," Dahlia said. She looked at his chest again, and finally dragged her gaze up to his face again. "Welcome to the neighborhood!" she chirped, and went out.

He frowned, leaning against the doorframe, still clad in only a pair of boxer shorts. "Uh…thanks for the cake!" he yelled. An old woman walked by, led by a tiny ball of fur that resembled a feather duster with a respiratory system. She and the dog both gave him disapproving glares, which he answered with a disgusted snort before he shut the door and dashed upstairs to see if he could find his clothes.

* * *

><p>Juliet found her partner at his desk, searching for something online and muttering under his breath about Elton John. He finally glanced at her. "Did you ever hear <em>Crocodile <em>_Rock_?"

"Of course…"

"Did you think that he was saying something about feeding his cat named Bill?"

"Yes…"

"Good. Good. I thought maybe I was just losing my hearing." He began printing something out. "I moved into my new condo the day before yesterday," he told her.

Her eyes widened. "Are you kidding? Really? Where is it?"

"I'm not sure I want to tell you."

"Why not?" she asked, looking hurt. "I'd love to throw you a house-warming party."

"You do that to newly married couples, not to single men."

"You do that _for_ them, not _to_ them."

"Same difference."

"Has…um…Marlowe seen it yet?"

"Not yet – only the pictures. She's working on a big project now and her hours are all screwy. She'll…uh…see it Friday night, I think." He rubbed his temples.

It was Tuesday. Just a few days until Christmas. Juliet seriously doubted he had decorated his house for Christmas, or even thought about doing such a thing. Granted, he was still unpacking and that in itself could be stressful, but she seriously wanted to do something for him, toward that end. She looked at his desk – so neat and organized, with not a single personal item there. Not even a photograph. She wondered if he had any photos in his wallet – maybe of at least his sister, to whom he was relatively close (he at least _spoke_ to Lauren), or maybe even his nephew, or Marlowe. She studied her partner, who had removed his jacket and had rolled up his sleeves, and sighed.

"What?" he asked, looking testy.

"You really should…you know…have at least a house warming party. You were able to hold that party after you ran that investigation on that millionaire. You were exactly right on all counts on that case, too."

"Except I didn't have all the pertinent information proving his guilt."

"Which wasn't your fault," Juliet pointed out. "His brother kept that from you and his lawyer."

"And your boyfriend put us at risk for a lawsuit and possible mistrial _again_ by breaking and entering, plus helping a convicted murderer escape from the booby hatch."

"Mental hospital," she corrected him gently. "And yes, I know."

"Did you ever notice," Carlton said, leaning back in his chair, "how boring and uninspiring actual detective work can be?"

"Yes, I know," she nodded.

"I had thoughts, when I was younger, of being Starsky…or Hutch. Whichever one of them practiced decent hygiene, anyway," he nodded. "Mostly, though, I'm Fish from _Barney__ Miller_. Just doing the paperwork, asking all the questions, following the leads. Meticulous, painstaking, clean, by the book investigations, and really, I don't care how we get the real killer, so long as we _get_ him. For us, though, there's no glamour, no excitement. Eh, a shoot-out, sometimes, often caused by Spencer."

"Carlton, that's not true…" Juliet objected. "About the excitement part, I mean. Shawn wears the fedora, you wear the hardhat. He flits around and claims all the credit…"

"And get the media attention, a commendation from the mayor, the key to the city," he nodded. "Our work, meanwhile, is generally as stupid and disappointing as a magic show, except that at least with magic shows, it does eventually end. We come in tomorrow morning, and there's a new murder to cope with."

Spencer came bounding into the bullpen then, grinning happily and giving Juliet a quick kiss. Carlton stood up, snatching up a file folder, and left before Shawn could start in on him. When his girlfriend shot him a warning look, Shawn sat down in Lassiter's chair and grinned at her. "So what's up, Jules? Where're we going to night?"

"Nowhere," she answered.

"Aw, c'mon. You said you wanted some time off from _us_, but I'm bored and there's nothing on TV tonight."

"Shawn, you always find something to watch on TV. Even if it's infomercials, and I'm still on my vacation from the Shawn-ness of the Shawnilator, thank you."

Spencer frowned, looking annoyed, and tried a different tack. "Lassie's moved into a new condo, and I thought we'd go check it out."

"Shawn, I am not breaking into his house. Repeat: I am _not_ breaking into his house."

"Who said we'd break in? We'll just go see it. It's at 2332 Arkle Lane. Arkle. What the hell kind of name is that?"

"I don't know," Juliet answered, but the name sounded familiar. Where had she heard it before? "And we're not going. Carlton is a very private man."

"Well, hell, he'd have to be, wouldn't he? All the guns and the paranoia and the ex-con girlfriend…"

Juliet glared at her boyfriend. "Go home, Shawn. _Now_."

* * *

><p>Marlowe eyed Carlton, gauging his reaction to the sight of a Christmas wreath on his front door and a leaflet in her hand that advertised Christmas trees for sale at a nearby parking lot. He was frowning, but he didn't look angry. He looked around his living room, eyeing the decorations on his mantelpiece, and the hanging Christmas stockings. She was just trying to cheer up his Christmas, and had brought the stuff over as a surprise. She didn't know that he hated surprises. She didn't know that he was still voluntarily excluded from the station's Secret Santa draw and hated snowglobes with an almost psychotic passion and didn't have a single happy Christmas memory from his childhood.<p>

But the kindness was there. He wasn't about to get all het up over _kindness_. Particularly from Marlowe.

"The house smells like cinnamon," he finally said. He was carrying a bag of groceries, including a smallish turkey, some cornmeal dressing mix, a bottle of sage, some good chicken broth, and a Christmas present for Marlowe that he hoped wasn't a total screw-up.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Wassail."

"Who-sail?"

"Wassail. You know…_Here__ we __come __a-wassailing __on __this__…__something __something__…__Christmas __day!_ Uh…er…_lah __blah __blah-dee-bloo-bloo__…ya...__yada__ …__dee-ba-day__…_"

"Sounds like my uncle Padraic after the Celtics lose a game, or even when they win. And what is wassail, exactly?" He put the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and went over to observe some kind of brown liquid simmering in a pot on the stove. He breathed in the scent – it was actually rather nice, and he caught not just cinnamon but apple and pineapple (pineapple!) and something kind of citrusy. He got the spoon and stirred it, and saw sticks of cinnamon and orange peels.

"It's basically hot cider, with some other ingred-…" Marlowe's explanation was cut short by Carlton moving back to her, settling her easily in place against the counter, threading his arms under hers and bracing against the counter as he kissed her thoroughly. She sighed against him, opening her mouth and letting him explore while she caressed his shoulders, feeling the tension slowly easing away, and finally ran her fingers through his remarkably soft hair. When he finally pulled back, she blinked. "Be careful with that thing, Detective. It's not a toy."

"What do you want to watch tonight?" he asked, eyes brilliantly blue.

Marlowe was too busy trying to get her mind jumpstarted to answer him immediately. The man could teach a course on kissing (not that she'd allow him to demonstrate his technique on anybody but her). And groping and fondling, too, and she thought briefly of her speech to him the other day, about waiting to move their relationship to the next, obvious, level. What in _hell_ was she thinking?

She watched him drop onto the couch and kick his shoes off before stretching out, his feet on the coffee table. He was flipping through his mail, tossing away a credit card offer. She watched his long, elegant fingers tear open a piece of mail and peruse a bill before he finally lifted his gaze back to her. He looked smug.

"Um…"

"Hm?"

Marlowe went to the couch and sat down beside him, smoothing her hair. Boxes were everywhere. A tour of the upstairs rooms had revealed more boxes and large, rather odd beds in the master suite and the bedroom next door. He had told her to go ahead and find the sheets and put them on, if she wanted to (with no indication that she was required to), and to start putting pictures on the floor under where she thought they might look best, and when he got home he would start checking for studs and start hanging them. She was not, however, permitted to pick up any heavy boxes and try to haul them around.

She liked his taste, actually, even if it was entirely masculine. All the dark tones – blues and blacks and gun-barrel grays, mostly – seemed to match his own coloring beautifully, as well as his rather irascible personality, but she was already thinking of lightening things up a little with more whites, and maybe even a dash of lighter, softer colors some day…if he would allow it. This new condo was also far sunnier, with much more natural light, which she liked and suspected signaled his more optimistic outlook on life.

She watched him as he continued reading through his mail. Bills, a copy of _California__ Law __Enforcement__ Quarterly_, and a monthly magazine for Civil War buffs. A bubbly little 'Welcome to the Neighborhood' letter from the homeowners' association, with a list of do's and don'ts that he appeared to find both amusing and vaguely annoying. He dug in his back pocket and extracted his wallet and checkbook, laying them on the coffee table, followed by his cell phone and his badge, and finally his Glock.

Never a wasted motion, she thought. She watched him remove the clip from the gun and drop it into an old candy dish, where it mixed in with Tootsie Rolls she had brought over. He took one of the candies, unwrapping it deftly, and popping the chocolate candy into his mouth. He turned the TV on and began flipping through channels, not completely familiar with the lineup offered by the satellite company, until he found _The__ Sons __of __Katie __Elder_ on TCM and sat back. "I lost the remote control once," he told her as she sat down beside him. "It was pretty awful, really. I finally made do by holding a calculator."

Marlowe startled him by suddenly straddling his hips and cupping his face in her hands, kissing him, hard and hot, as she pulled the pieces of mail from his hands and left them to scatter on the floor. He didn't resist, of course. He turned the TV off, andhis hands slid from her thighs and to her backside, and finally up, his fingers making brief contact with the bare skin of her back before continuing northwards and up to her breasts, gently massaging through her blouse.

Marlowe sat back suddenly, Carlton following her before he fell back against the cushions, staring up at her. She stared back at him, breathless, heart pounding. Finally, she started undoing her blouse, watching him as he watched her, and threw the garment aside before plunging back into his embrace, feeling his hands undoing her bra with the deftness she knew she could expect.

"Bed," she whispered against his mouth. "_Now_."

* * *

><p>The doorbell was ringing. Again and again, and whoever was down there was not going away. Carlton slammed the door behind him, scrambling into his bathrobe and tying it closed, growling and fuming and not caring that he had a hickey and that he had a smudge of Marlowe's lipstick on his chin. He rushed downstairs, went to the coffee table and retrieved his gun, smacking the clip back in as Tootsie Rolls scattered everywhere, and stomped to the door, growling like an enraged bear, and flung it open.<p>

A clearly annoyed O'Hara was standing there, looking apologetic, with Spencer and Guster on either side of her. They were each carrying something in their hands, but through his red haze of fury he didn't recognize any of the items. He aimed the pistol directly at Spencer's forehead, and the arrogant little prick actually did gulp nervously.

"Carlton, I _begged_ Shawn not to do this, and the only reason I came along when he insisted on doing this anyway was because I figured you wouldn't kill him with two witnesses…thus Gus is also here."

"And wetting my pants," Guster said. "No one will be able to deny that I was here…as a material witness!"

"All. Of. You. Go. Away. Now," Carlton said, teeth clenched.

"I brought you a housewarming gift!" Shawn said, his initial terror finally subsiding into mere fear and possible loss of bladder control as well. The fake psychic held up a tallish box with some kind of garish, multi-colored writing on it, along with a picture of a parrot.

"Carlton, please put the gun down," Juliet pleaded. "Please? We'll leave soon, I swear it."

Her partner eyed them all, still pointing the pistol directly at Spencer's forehead. He wasn't so sure that O'Hara would testify against him for killing Spencer, but Guster might and Carlton didn't figure he could actually kill Guster, much less O'Hara. Finally, he put the pistol down. He was barefoot and cold, anyway. With a rasping "Get in here and make it quick!" he stepped aside and let the trio into his house.

"Well, first of all, Gus here has brought you a box of chocolate candy," Shawn said, pointing at his still trembling friend, who sprang into action on cue and held the box out to Carlton, who snatched it away and ripped it open. Russell Stover. He noted two layers of chocolates with various kinds of fillings, and figured Marlowe would appreciate the gift. He closed the box and tossed it onto the couch. A few candies escaped from the box and went on an adventure into the cushions.

"I…I brought you a plant," O'Hara said, thrusting a white and pink cyclamen into his hands. He stared down at the plant, with its weird, inside-out alien flowers and lush green leaves, and closed his eyes.

"Thank you," he finally managed to hiss. He would apologize to her tomorrow, and thank her, because the flower was rather pretty. He would have to wait until he was calm, though.

"And I brought you Pedro." Spencer grinned at him and held the box out to him. Carlton took it, gave Spencer a glare that could lock the Gobi Desert in a five-mile thick block of ice, and ripped into the box with his bare hands, tearing through the thick cardboard as if it was mere paper. Spencer stepped back, looking a little more worried, and they all watched the agitated detective pull the gift out – a red and yellow-furred mechanical parrot. Shawn helpfully reached over and turned the parrot on with a little switch on its underside. It was seated on a plastic limb, and began flapping its wings and turning its head from side to side, little mechanical eyes blinking.

"Pedro repeats everything you say!" Shawn said excitedly.

"_Pedro __repeats __everything__ you __say_!" the parrot squawked.

"Can it say 'Eat dirt and die, Spencer'?"

"_Can__ it __say __'Eat __dirt __and __die,__Spencer'?_"

"See?" Shawn said, grinning.

"_See?_" Pedro repeated. Carlton turned the bird off and put in on the coffee table, next to his Glock. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Well, thank you all for the lovely gifts. Now get the hell out of my house."

"But we…" Shawn started, and paused when Juliet gave him a murderous look and moved her gaze from him to a black, lacy object on the floor by the couch, which Shawn followed, his eyes widening. "We have to go, because…because…uh…_The__ Princess __Bride_ is showing at nine o'clock tonight on…on…uh…"

"AMC!" Gus said.

"Great. Go watch the movie. Buy some popcorn. Eat M&M's with it, and some Whoppers and drink a gallon of Coke each. Get some mentos and make a volcano. Light up big reefers and laugh until dawn, for all I care," He started walking toward them, and they started backing toward the door, and finally moved in one panicked mass out and into the night. "Get out and _have__ fun__ storming__ the __castle_!"

Carlton slammed the door behind them and moments later he heard the sound of tires squealing. He stood for a moment, leaning against it, eyes closed. He heard a door open upstairs and stepped toward the stairs. Marlowe appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing nothing but his blue-and-silver striped tie.

"Such nice silk," she said. "How does it look on me?"

"It certainly looks a hell of a lot better on you than it ever did on me," he told her. "I'll be right up."

"Don't worry," she said, smiling. "I certainly won't start without you." She undid the tie and let it fall to the floor. He couldn't keep from grinning, and started up the stairs, but then stopped and looked around the room. He walked around to the coffee table and stood for a moment, looking at the cyclamen O'Hara had given him, gently rubbing a green leaf between his fingers, and the box of chocolate candies. He snatched up the box, thought about it, and snatched up Pedro, too, then turned back and headed upstairs.

TBC


	5. Process

Well, I had more time to myself this weekend...

I own nothing. Well, I own this computer and I own some CD's and...oh, wait, I mean, I don't own anything from _Psych_. If I did, I'd have Shawn Spencer getting smacked around a lot. Just saying.

* * *

><p>"Morning, Carlton," Juliet called to her partner, watching him take his jacket off in a startlingly graceful motion and hang it on the back of his chair. He sat down, scooting to his desk and flipping through his messages. He looked…well-rested, while also a little fatigued.<p>

"O'Hara," he finally answered, reading quickly and snatching up the phone when it rang. "Lassiter. What? No. Really. Uh…that would be wonderful…but also a little inappropriate, and there's cameras all over the place, so…er…" He glanced at his partner, cleared his throat. "I'll call you later. If I can get out, we'll have lunch. Yeah. Okay. Bye." He hung up and went to loosen his tie, but he wasn't wearing one. He shuffled the papers around and logged in, then scratched the back of his ear.

"Lassiter, O'Hara," Vick said, gesturing from her door. "In here, please."

The two detectives trailed into the chief's office and took their seats across from her. She took a deep breath. "Woody just called and informed me that six bodies were just brought into the coroner's office, all from a wooded area near the park on Chatham."

"Six?" Juliet gasped, astonished. "Oh my God…"

"All were under the age of twenty-one…and two were…under fifteen." She swallowed. "We're still trying to ID them, but decay and…predation by…animals have made that very difficult. We seem to have serial killer on our hands, and he's targeting children."

"And how long were they there?" Carlton asked, his voice clipped.

"The…oldest…that is, the one that had been there the longest, was there about two years and is giving us the most trouble with IDing. She was fifteen. The most recent one has only been dead four days. We're just starting to go through every missing-child report for the area in the past year…"

"Then we need to go look at the crime scene, right?" Carlton nodded.

"Exactly."

* * *

><p>A group of schoolchildren had found the first body. The rest had been found by the CSI's as they investigated the woods. Pieces of clothing were found, but the woods were littered with trash of every imaginable kind, along with lots of small animal bones that were found to be mixed with human bones…and even some teeth. Carlton read through Woody's report and winced when he saw the words 'human teeth marks', with regard to findings on the most recent body.<p>

A group of CSI's were walking abreast through the woods, looking for anything of interest. The places where the corpses were found had been carefully processed, and left as undisturbed as possible. Juliet, having changed into more sensible shoes, followed her partner as he walked around each spot. He watched as a CSI dropped a Styrofoam cup into an evidence bag, and caught the woman's eye – it was Melissa Hardwicke again, and she stood up when she recognized him.

"Detective Lassiter. Detective O'Hara. I wish we were meeting under less horrible circumstances."

"Anything of note?" Carlton asked mildly, still looking around.

"There's a lipstick stain on this cup. We don't know if it means anything, though."

"Right."

Juliet stood beside her partner, gauging his reactions. He was scowling, which meant that he was thoroughly pissed that a serial killer was violating the most innocent of lives. He turned to Juliet, and started to say something, but his expression got even colder when he saw Spencer and Guster standing at the top of the hill.

He looked at Juliet. "Thanks for the cyclamen, by the way."

"Oh. Oh, yes. I'm glad you liked it!" she said brightly.

"Marlowe thought it was really pretty."

"Right." She glanced at his neck and caught a brief glimpse of a hickey but said nothing about it.

"What about Pedro?" she finally asked, when they were well out of earshot of Melissa Hardwicke and particularly of Shawn and Gus."

He only eased one slow, bemused look in her direction, as if he were nudging her out of the way in the line at the donut shop (she tended to stand too long at the 'donut viewing box', daydreaming about fattening crullers and bearclaws), and she caught a tiny light flash in his eyes, indicating amusement.

"Marlowe thinks it's kind of…er…cute, too," he finally said.

She had never heard him use the word 'cute' before. Not even when he had been introduced to her cats. Then again, when she had questioned him about the cuteness of Mr Peepers playing with a ball of yarn, he had agreed – without saying it – that it was cute, but had indicated – out loud - that if Mr Peepers had choked to death in the ball of yarn, it would have been hilarious. That had earned him a smack on the arm.

"Really?" she raised an eyebrow. "Hm. How was your Christmas?" she finally asked. The CSI's had moved off and Shawn was tromping down the hill with Gus, to start looking over the scene.

"It was good," he nodded.

"Good?" She hated it when he was evasive.

Shawn came stomping back up the hill, looking disgruntled. "Hey, Lassie, how was your Christmas? Was it Marlowetastic?"

"Spencer, Guster," Carlton answered, acknowledging them but otherwise refusing to rise to the bait. He walked away, toward a group of CSI's, all of whom greeted him with their notes and observations. He stood with them, reading through each hand-written report, his scowl deepening, and finally he looked up again. "Have the kids been questioned…just to find out if they've ever seen anybody around here that looked strange?"

"We did ask a few questions, but their parents were all pretty freaked out, and so were they," Hardwicke told him. She brushed her hair back from her face and looked Carlton directly in the eye, her head tipped back a little, exposing her neck to him, _perhaps_ subconsciously. Juliet recognized those signals – whether she meant to or not, the woman was practically screaming 'Take me! Take me now!' and as usual, her partner was totally clueless. He gave her a terse nod and began scribbling in his notepad.

"We'd like to talk to them, and then do a little talking to any other kid that frequents this park. One of them has to have seen something, or someone, that didn't look right. Creepy guys that hang around playgrounds, for instance, would be something to start on." He began writing again, and Juliet walked over, touching his elbow.

"A word?"

Carlton's shoulders slumped a little, but he stepped away with her.

"Well, several words, actually: first, that woman will eventually try to stick her tongue down your throat if you're not careful, and secondly, I'm not sure we want to start off by freaking out a bunch of kids."

He studied her, blue eyes paling to almost white, which she had never seen before. He took a deep breath, and she realized he was horrified. "You're probably right," he finally strangled out, his jaw tight.

"About…?" she queried, uncertain.

"The second part. No…uh…no use freaking out a bunch of kids. But maybe we could at least…talk to the parents, see if the kids ever said anything? Any recent memories of little Bonnie shrieking, 'Mommy, Mommy, that creepy man offered me candy and he smelled like tapioca', and so on?"

"Right," she nodded, eyeing her partner and noting his unease.

He glanced over at Hardwicke. "She…wait a minute…I don't…I told her…"

"Well, some people don't catch on as quickly as others. And really, she's not scary or anything. She's just…interested." Juliet studied the cut of his suit jacket, his tie-less neck and his healthy glow and couldn't blame the brunette CSI for that.

"My God!" he hissed, eyes widening as he seemed to recall something particularly appalling. "The bathtub? She had to have been kidding! She had to be!"

Juliet stared at her partner, bewildered, before shaking her head and continuing. "Calm down. It's all right. Just be honest…" She tried to soothe him, keeping her voice low. Shawn and Gus were moving closer, and she knew he had to be as calm as possible now.

"Oh, right…" He rubbed his face. "Oh my God…that woman must think I've got my donkey tied to every bedpost in town…and I don't! I don't even have a donkey!" He looked utterly panicked then, yet also aware that he was babbling, and he wound down, taking a deep breath.

"Carlton, you don't have your…wait, what?" She shook her head to clear it and hoped to get him off his current Crazy Train. "Listen. Just make it clear that you're attached and in a committed…it is a committed relationship, right?…relationship and that you're out of…off lim-…that you're no longer in…er…play?"

"In play?" Carlton snapped. "What is this, dodgeball? For God's sake, O'Hara…" He stuffed his notepad in his pocket. "Never mind about that. Never mind! We are searching for a serial killer…who is killing kids. Kids!" He whipped around and looked at Spencer, who had sidled up behind him, a grin forming on his face. "I don't want to hear jokes, Spencer. No cute references to obscure eighties films and actors and video games, or snide comments directed at me or my personal life or my hair. We've got six dead kids on our hands and for once in your pathetic, egocentric, fraudulent existence, try being serious and respectful of the dead and the people who are trying to find a freaking serial killer!" He turned back to Juliet and barked, "Set up those interviews!"

She nodded and wrote the order down on her notepad. She looked at Shawn, who for once kept his mouth shut.

* * *

><p>He didn't get home until well after midnight, and was so tired he barely made it to the couch. He turned the TV on and kicked his shoes off, and looked around the dark, cold room. For a little while, he stared at the screen, watching <em>Twilight<em> and deciding that somewhere in Hollywood there was indeed a computer that, every year or so, spat out another idiotic screenplay about vampires. One of his life's ambitions was to go to Hollywood, locate that computer, and destroy it with an axe.

Carlton didn't jump out of his skin when Marlowe slipped her hands over his shoulders and bent down to kiss his cheek. He only exhaled, closing his eyes, breathed in her soft, light lilac perfume, and looked up at her as she smiled down at him. "Hi."

"I hope you don't mind that I decided to stay here tonight," she said softly, slipping around the couch and taking her seat next to him, nestling up against him, her head on his chest. He slowly drew his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "My roommates are watching a 'Worst of Richard Burton' marathon and I prefer to remember him at his best, thank you."

"Why would I mind?" he asked.

"I dunno…maybe you think we're moving too fast?" she smiled softly.

_Faster. Faster, Carlton. Harder…oh, God…yes…harder…oh…_

He looked at her, remembering every minute detail of her body and her voice and her scent and the way she felt underneath him, and on top of him, and beside him. He had been immersed in her, drowning in her, and he didn't want to come up for air. Ever. He hadn't said the words yet. He was still looking out of the corners of his eyes, still tensing sometimes, waiting for her to tell him she was tired of him. Even after having spent the entire weekend together – mostly in bed – he was still insecure. He wasn't sure how he would ever get over that. But God in heaven, he wanted to.

"I had a pretty rough day," he finally said. She touched his cheek, gently smoothing his brows and sliding her fingers through the gray hair at his temples.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault. And I'm home now, and work's at work."

Marlowe gently brushed her lips against his, then slowly stood up, pulling him up off the couch. "You need to sleep."

"I do. Right…"

She took his hand and lightly kissed his fingertips. _It__ won't __always __be__ this __way_, he told himself. _She'll __get__ tired __of __you.__ She'll __get __sick __of__ your __hours __and __your __temper__ and __then __she'll __just__…__leave_. He swallowed. He was a novelty, he supposed, for someone like her. An experiment. Maybe even a charity case.

"Carlton?" she said softly. "Stop looking that way."

"Wh-what way?" he asked, snapping out of his miserable self-prophecies.

"Like you're waiting for your execution."

He looked down. "It's a long ride in that cart, Marlowe. Up the steps, apologize for stepping on the axeman's foot, kneel down, adjust a bit, say the final prayer…then…_whump_…and the crowd goes wild…"

"That was vivid…and you actually think I'm going somewhere?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Everybody else does."

"I'm not everybody else," she said gently, but with a firm implacability that he was just starting to get to know. "Now come on to bed. I kept it warm for you. I think I identified one of those carvings, by the way."

"Oh?" his brow furrowed. "Which one?" He followed her up the stairs, pausing in the hallway to kiss her, warmth spreading through his cold, worn-down bones as her body lined up against his. She was unbuttoning his shirt, then his belt, and he was kissing her more deeply now, craving her. _Needing_ her. More than he'd ever needed anything. He had been able to lie to everyone for years, about being a lone wolf, and of being able to survive on his own and not needing any help with anything. Now, he was sure he would just fade away into nothing if he was left alone again, and if she left him, he wasn't sure he'd survive at all.

"That one that looks like a cross between Napoleon and a griffin? Remember? I think it might be Benedict Arnold!"

He pursed his lips and stared at her, then at the picture on the wall, beside her, of an uzi shooting out floors, before looking at her again, taking in her lovely, excited smile.

Okay, so she's a little on the goofy side.

He could definitely live with that.

* * *

><p>It was almost dawn – he could just see dark outside. Which was a ridiculous thought, but it was <em>less<em> darkness within the darkness, so therefore, it was only _dark_ he could see. Sort of like how white wasn't even a color, but merely color _without_ color, and how Secretariat wouldn't have been Secretariat without the blood of Princequillo and Nasrullah combined to create perfection. It either was or it _wasn't_ dark out there. Just dark gray dark as opposed to dark _dark_ dark.

Marlowe was snuggled against him, her leg over his hip, her arms around his waist. He suspected her arm, under his ribcage, was probably numb. He gently shifted away from her, and was gratified when she whimpered and tried to moved into his arms again. He was firm, but very gentle, as he extricated himself from her and moved onto his back, looking up at the ceiling fan. The room was warm, and he could see water droplets on the foggy windows – they had made love so many times, and so vigorously, that the windows had steamed up.

"Mmm…good morning," she whispered, stretching like a kitten, and snuggling over to him again, putting her head on his chest and sighing, running her fingers through his chest hair. The old sternum bush, he thought with a snicker.

"Morning."

"What time is it?" she asked, yawning.

"Almost…five," he answered, glancing at the loathed alarm clock on the bedside table.

"_Le __sigh_," she said with a soft laugh. "Mm, tickly…" She nuzzled his chest. "I like all that salt and pepper. I have to go to work at eight."

"I have to be at work at seven."

"Damn…"

"Naughty girl, cursing in bed."

"Naughty just for _cursing_?" she whispered, tipping her head up and kissing his chin. "And what about you? You were saying a couple of things last night…and this morning…"

"Things I don't say in mixed company," he said.

She sat up suddenly, giving him a breathtaking view of her delicious, bare breasts and her soft pink and white skin and her smooth, comforting shoulders. "I loved my Christmas present, Carlton. It was so beautiful."

"Uh…good. I'm glad you liked it," he answered distractedly, unable to stop looking at her, feeling like that shy, awkward seventeen-year old who had learned so much from an older, experienced woman so many years ago. Helena hadn't been some cradle-robbing slut, either. She had been a young widow, her husband killed two years before in a car wreck, and her affair with Carlton had actually turned out to be helpful to them both. She had moved on and married another man. He had gone to college, much more sure of himself. The affair had ended amicably and without a trace of rancor or even regret between them. He even got a Christmas card from her, every year, sans the typical cheerful family newsletter about her and her husband and their kids. Just a general update (her oldest daughter had just gotten her drivers' license!) and best wishes for his good health and happiness and please don't get shot.

Marlowe was wearing the delicate silver bracelet, with its tiny threads of gold, and had sworn she'd never take it off. On the clasp was a tiny 24-carat gold heart, which he had jokingly said was about the size of his own and the Grinch's, which had caused Marlowe to remind him that the Grinch's heart had grown three sizes larger after he'd rejoined the Who race (or something – he couldn't remember now, as they had been drinking a little champagne at the time). That had lead to a tickling match and a particularly passionate lovemaking session on the floor in front of the crackling fire.

When he had told O'Hara that his Christmas had been 'good', Carlton had not been kidding. It had been the best damned Christmas he'd ever had. She had given him a solid-gold handcuffs tie-tack and a can of spray-on bikini. She definitely knew what he liked.

"What's for breakfast?" Marlowe asked, getting out of bed and walking over to the chair, where she got his shirt and slipped it on, slowly buttoning it up, just to make him crazy. He got up quickly – a little too quickly - and remembered that old adage about how love makes the world go around, and how his grandmother had amended the saying with 'and so can standing up too fast'. He wavered a moment, knowing his brief bout of dizziness was from having not eaten since yesterday afternoon and from too much sex. As if there could ever actually be too much sex, but…there you were. He did need to eat something.

He pulled on his sweatpants and followed Marlowe downstairs. The heater had kicked on, set at a comfortable sixty-eight degrees (which they both agreed was perfect for daytime, but that they didn't need the heat to be on at night so long as she was in his bed), and the house was warm and cozy. He paused in the living room, seeing her standing there, looking confused.

"You turned the TV off last night," she said.

The TV was on. _I __Love __Lucy_ was just coming on. He scratched the back of his head, not wanting to let her see the rush of panic on his face. He _had_ turned the TV off.

"Hm."

She turned and looked at him. "You did turn it off, didn't you?"

"I'm sure I did. Yes."

The channels started changing then. Marlowe jumped back against him, alarmed, and even more so when Martha Stewart's face came on the screen. "Good Lord, I hate that woman!"

"It's just some issue with the satellite company. I'll call and tell them to stop fannying about and they'll fix it. Don't worry." He started toward the kitchen.

"But the satellite company wouldn't turn the TV _on_, would they?"

"Maybe I set a timer or something. That remote control – it weighs almost three pounds. I swear I could use it to open the garage door. God only knows what it does when I'm not around."

"Carlton!"

"Listen, Marlowe – it's okay! It's just a TV and why is there a pot of water boiling on the stove?"

* * *

><p>"Will you just calm down?"<p>

Carlton was at his desk, looking at six coroner's reports on six murder victims found in a wooded area near a playground. All the bodies had been placed in random spots in the woods, mostly pretty much just left there, their bodies exposed to the elements, wild animals and crows. Two had been somewhat buried, under leaves and wattle. One had some rocks over it. Four of them had their eyes cut out, which made his stomach lurch. One had _teeth__marks_ on it, and all had been mutilated. All six were girls. None had been ID'd yet, which was driving him, O'Hara and Vick crazy.

Marlowe was a little freaked out. He was too, actually. Finding a pot boiling on the stove at five-thirty in the morning had been a definite 'WTF?' moment for them both. At least it had only been water, and not a rabbit. He couldn't think of anybody who would pull such a prank – not even Spencer was quite that sick and demented, and besides which, he doubted Spencer knew how to boil water.

"I can't calm down!" Marlowe responded. She was at work, on her lunch break. "You don't walk into the kitchen and find a pot of water boiling on the stove at five thirty in the morning, when you know you didn't get peckish in the middle of the night and decide to boil eggs!"

There hadn't been any eggs. Just water. Boiling. He had examined the kitchen carefully, and even thought about calling someone discreet from the station to come down and fingerprint the place. He wondered if Glenn Close's prints were on file with CODUS…

But he hadn't. His rational mind was still trying to think of some scenario where he would leave a pot of water boiling on the stove overnight and not remember having done it, and where said water would not eventually evaporate and the pot would not catch fire and the house would not burn down while he was upstairs making the headboard thump so hard against the wall that said wall was going to need to be re-plastered.

The carving on the bed did look like Benedict Arnold, actually. He had studied the carving of the Roc, however, to help concentrate. Somehow, traitorous Revolutionary War generals were far less conducive to romance than legendary beasts found in his old childhood copy of _The __Arabian __Nights_. Of course he hadn't needed to use the mythical bird for long – Marlowe's moans and whispers of encouragement had been more than enough, and then she had been the one with the better view of the carvings…

He coughed and dragged his mind out of the gutter. "Okay. I'll keep looking into it. How's your day going?"

"Fine. We're doing splicing today. It's about bears."

"I would think it was illegal to splice bears."

"Very funny. It's a documentary. PETA sponsored it. Here's a wonderful spoiler - one of the PETA reps got eaten. I haven't laughed so hard in months. I guess I'm out of luck on the notion of having lunch with you today, huh?"

"I'm afraid so. Sorry."

"It's okay. I'll have lunch with some of my friends, but it won't be nearly as fun. Bye, sweetheart."

He smiled, his peripheral vision not catching O'Hara coming around the corner with a stack of files and looking agitated. "Bye, babe." He hung up and looked up at his partner, who plunked half of the stack of files on his desk.

"Fifteen kids between age twelve and eighteen went missing in Santa Barbara in the past ten years, but only six have yet to be found, and they all disappeared in the past _two_ years."

He nodded. "Then let's start digging, Wojciehowicz."

"Indeed, Detective Fish."

* * *

><p><em>Author's note<em>: Nasrullah and Princequillo were both great Thoroughbred stallions, and are the grandsires (paternal & maternal) of Secretariat. Read _Secretariat_ by Bill Nack if you really want to understand how important they were (and are). Yes. I am a racing fan and a pedigree geekess. What of it? :D


	6. Translations

Juliet watched her partner go over each name of each victim, his fingers bouncing over the first name and then the next, his brow furrowing, lips pursing. "All Eastern European," he finally said.

"Yes."

"Former Yugoslavia, mostly."

She nodded.

"How do you think that one is pronounced?" he asked, handing her the paper and pointing at the third name. Nastasja Prsljvic. She sighed.

"I have no idea."

"Me neither, but we'll find out. Have her parents been tracked down yet?"

"No. We're still looking. There's a decent-sized Eastern European neighborhood in Santa Barbara," she told him.

"Right. On Culver and on north to Grange and west to Chatham. I think the killer is operating in that area, anyway." He refused to say 'so far', and hated himself for thinking it.

"Right." Her cell chirped and she answered quickly, then nodded, scribbling something on her notepad. "Told you! They found the parents." She swallowed, realizing now that they were going to have to tell those poor people their daughter was dead.

"Yugoslavia has had a terrible history," Carlton said, reading from an article online. "That whole region has been nothing more than one huge domestic dispute since God was in shorts. And way back in the fifteen-hundreds, there was a terrible consonant outbreak that killed all their vowels. I swear it, O'Hara, an Irishman cannot handle vowel shortages. We just can't. We have enough trouble with not overcooking our food and letting the English run our lives."

Juliet smiled softly, and he went on, feeling weary, rubbing his face.

"We'll need a translator. I know that most Slavic languages can be translated by a Russian, at the very least, but maybe a Croatian or a Serb or something…?" He tapped the list with his pencil. "They were all from the former Yugoslavia, so obviously the killer is from that part of the world at least…that's the first clue. So we have sort of a who and sort of a what…just not a specific clue…which would be useful right now."

She nodded. "I'll see what I can find."

He nodded, and when Shawn and Gus came in, looking eager, he handed the list to Spencer. "All six victims."

Shawn read it over, and shook his head, handing the list back to him. "This is gibberish. What are their names?"

"Those are the names," Carlton pointed out. "And remember what I told you about being respectful of the dead?"

"Where are the vowels?" Spencer asked, looking at the list again.

"Well, the psychic is stumped at last – by surnames!" Juliet said with a laugh.

Spencer nodded, looking flummoxed but undefeated. Gus spoke up. "I know a pharmaceuticals rep who is…a little Croatian. Maybe he could help?"

"You mean a small Croatian, or he has some Croatian blood, like Tesla?" Spencer asked.

"Both, actually," Gus nodded.

"Every bit will help," Carlton nodded. Juliet took off to start doing some research. Gus headed off, making a call on his cell. The head detective sat down at his desk and went to an online translation sight, hoping maybe the 'listen' button would help him. He listened to the pronunciation of Prsljvic and rubbed his eyes, knowing his tongue would never wrap around that one. He knew only a few phrases of Russian that wouldn't get him anywhere, as they were all curse words. One phrase of French ("_Que__l '__enfer,__ c'est __seulement __au __Canada_", which had been a phrase he had used for his French oral in high school, when he had described the sale of Canada to the British), very little Spanish aside from a typical menu, and a smattering of German, a language he hated speaking under any circumstances, considering all the spitting involved. He doubted his fluency in Irish Gaelic would be of much use in this case. It hadn't been before, except when he'd gone to Ireland to see his ancestral thatch-roof cottage in Cill Chiaráin- _Mo Dhia! Mo sinsear a bhí chomh bocht is nathracha!_

"Hey, Lassie, I was looking up your new neighborhood online and saw that a couple of murders happened at your house," Shawn said, breaking into his thoughts. Ireland's greens and sorrows faded away and he was back in his chair at the station, looking up at Spencer.

Carlton shot to his feet. "You're the one who put the pot on the stove, aren't you? Already breaking into my house, are you, you sniveling little…"

"Hey, hey, wait a minute, Lassie! I didn't break into your house. And what about the pot on your stove? Was it a pot for cooking, or was it pot for smoking, because if it's the latter, then…well, it's legal, 'medicinally' – wink, wink - in California, which begs the question: if you've got glaucoma, what are you doing with the police department when your vision is that bad?"

Carlton ran a hand through his hair. "Never mind."

"Hey, hey, wait a minute…what about the pot? C'mon, Lassie, tell me!" Shawn begged. "I'm…_genuinely_ concerned here. I mean, really, I am. Really!" He dogged Lassiter's steps as the older man snatched up his jacket and headed for the doors. "Really, dude. C'mon! What about this pot?"

"We got up this morning and there was a pot of water, boiling on the stove," Carlton finally told him, exasperated and frankly desperate enough by now to get that little mystery solved. There had to be a rational explanation for it. There had to be.

"Uh…really? Creepy. No bunny, right? "

Carlton shook his head.

"And…er…_we_?"

"Never mind."

"Hey, wait…was Marlowe…?"

"I've got business elsewhere."

* * *

><p>Carlton arrived back at his condo before lunch, and went around to the back, checking for unfamiliar footprints. Unfortunately, it had rained again last night and there were none. His back patio was clean – not a single footprint there, either. He went in through the back and checked the doors for any sight of anybody forcing their way in, but again, nothing. He stood in his living room, rubbing his forehead and knowing he was wasting time on <em>this<em> ridiculous thing while a man and his wife were being told their daughter had been murdered. He turned to head back out the back door and almost screamed in terror when he came face to extremely wide chest with a modern-day version of the Brute Squad.

"I'm Grady," the man said, shifting his feet. He was tall enough that Carlton had to step back and tilt his head back a little to look the man right in the eye.

"Good God," Carlton gasped. The guy was at least six feet seven inches. Taller than McNabb!

"No. _Grady_."

"Right. Right."

"I'm the caretaker 'round here. I tend the gardens and the yards, mend whatever needs mended outside, that kind of thing."

"Right. Great."

"Who are you?"

"Carlton Lassiter, SBPD."

"What's an Esbeepeedee?"

"I'm a detective…Santa Barbara Police Department." Never get snarky with a man that size, Carlton thought. He knew he was a pretty tough SOB in his own right, but he was also not stupid.

"Oh."

"Have you ever seen or heard of recent break-ins around here?" Carlton asked Grady. The mahogany-skinned man studied him with benign interest. Carlton gauged him to be around sixty, but clearly as strong and healthy as a bull, and he was toting a huge gas-powered leafblower. It looked like the guy could use it to take flight, frankly.

"No."

"Right. Well, that's good. Great to hear."

"Did somebody break into your house, Mr Esbeepeedee?"

"Lassiter," Carlton correctly, in as gentle a voice as he could considering his growing distress. "And yes. I think so. Maybe you could keep an eye out for anything suspicious? Flying pots…footprints…prancing garden topiary?" he said, nodding toward the line of molded trees in the back of the property. Elephants, deer, a horse, a dragon, and so on, were all over the lush gardens, which were extremely well maintained. There was also, according to what the woman from the real estate office had said, a maze somewhere out there. He had no interest in exploring it. In fact, the very idea of a garden maze kind of gave him the creeps.

"I can," Grady nodded.

"Great. Thanks. I…I have to go now because I…uh…have to go. See ya 'round!" He galloped away, around the condo, and back to his car. He was driving out of the parking lot when he looked through his rearview mirror and saw Grady standing in his front yard, blowing offending leaves off the perfectly coiffed grass.

* * *

><p>Carlton glanced at the translator Gus had brought in, and saw that the little man seemed very, very nervous – tugging at his necktie, licking his lips, and clearing his throat. "What's the matter with you?" Carlton asked him, feeling no need for niceties now.<p>

"I'm just nervous."

"About what? You do speak Croatian, right?"

"Of course!"

"So what's to be nervous about? They speak, you tell us what they're saying. We speak, you tell them what we're saying. Sounds extremely easy."

"Well, see, I am Croatian…at least…uh…partly. I grew up in Uruguay."

"_Uruguay_?"

"Yes. See, my mother was Uruguayan. She grew up in Uruguay, and _her_ mother was from Germany…"

"And how far up your family tree are we going before we get to a name without vowels?" Carlton asked him, becoming impatient.

"Uh…well, her mother was from Croatia. Her father was from Germany. They kind of…ended up in Uruguay…after the war."

"So your great-grandfather was a Nazi, I'm assuming?"

"That's sort of what we never talked about, in my family. By the time the Mossad found him, he didn't even remember his name. Grandma always figured it would have been easier to just put a frog in his colostomy bag and be done with it."

Patience. Carlton let a few seconds tick by. "Do you actually speak Croatian?"

"Uh…some of it might get a little…lost…English is my first language. Spanish is actually my second language, then German, then...uh…Croatian."

_Tick, __tick, __tick_. "Should I go look for a dictionary?"

"No, no, I'm sure I can do this!"

Their Uruguayan-Teutonic-Croatian proved relatively helpful, even if he confused 'shoe' with 'spouse' at one rather critical point. He managed to process rapid-fire Croatian to Carlton, who scribbled furiously as the old couple talked, both of them frantic, hopeful, frightened and in for a heartbreak. He hadn't had the heart to ask them any questions. Maybe later. Maybe never. He figured he wouldn't be able to answer any questions for a few decades if somebody murdered _his_ daughter…

They were standing in the morgue now, looking at the remains of a sixteen-year old girl. Carlton had tried to prevent the parents of the girl from coming down to make a positive ID – dental records had proven beyond any doubt who she was – but they had insisted on seeing their daughter. The moment Woody pulled the drawer open and removed the sheet, the woman started sobbing hysterically, crossing herself again and again, while the father just stood there, staring down at his only daughter's…body, or what was left of her. He saw Spencer pale and turn away. Carlton, meanwhile, just looked down at the girl, taking in her browned, shriveled skin and her hollowed-out eye sockets, with puncture wounds making little slits in the remaining skin where the eyes had been…

Carlton had seen numerous scenes like this. He was supposed to be used to them. Hardened, even. He remembered Victoria telling him once, when he'd come home after finding the body of a young woman in a steam trunk, that he smelled like death itself, and had been appalled that he hadn't gone upstairs and vomited up everything he'd eaten in the past week. He hadn't been able to explain why he didn't, but she had not had any interest in hearing him say why. By then, she didn't want to hear him explain anything.

There were no little jokes or cute quips from Shawn, either. Guster was nowhere in sight, being unable to cope with the sight of a dead body. Carlton was actually glad for Spencer's partner, because at least he wouldn't be having nightmares tonight. He looked at the psuedopsychic and caught the younger man's expression. He looked…sick.

Finally, Woody pushed the drawer closed again and a uniformed officer took the sobbing couple back upstairs. Carlton checked his watch and sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"What kind of sick bastard murders a sixteen-year old girl?" Shawn asked him.

"The same kind of sick bastard that murders anybody else, I suppose," Carlton answered. He felt so old. So worn down. He was forty-two, he had a constant pain in his left shoulder that prevented him from being able to tip his head back any more, so he couldn't drink the last dregs from a bottle. His knees clicked when he climbed stairs. He found it harder and harder to go to sleep at night, and ten times harder to wake up in the morning. He was finding more and more gray hairs…but at least he wasn't losing any hair. No…he was actually finding hair in his ears now...

"Buzz said once…" Shawn said, scratching the back of his neck. "Buzz said that he thought you were a robot, Lassie, but that can't be the case. You're more like…a warhorse. A mean one - that bites and kicks and stomps. Drags the wounded soldier out of the field alive, though. Gets the job done, no matter what, and then goes right back to the battlefield. Got scars all over you, huh?"

"A few."

"Been shot?"

"Four times."

"Jesus!"

Carlton looked around the morgue. Somehow, in this room, taking God's name in vain seemed a little…disrespectful. But he nodded. "I seem to recall saying that name a few times, first time I was shot. I took a bullet between my ribs, left side. Second time, I lost consciousness too soon to say anything about it – took a slug right above my left collarbone." He caught Shawn's uneasy smile. "Third time, it was in my leg and it barely missed the femoral artery. If it had hit…"

"You'd've died," Shawn said simply, but he looked…horrified.

"Yep. Fourth time, it was just a shoulder wound. A little nick. Nothing serious. O'Hara freaked when she saw all the blood. She blackmailed me into going to the hospital."

"How'd she do that?" They started walking up the stairs.

"She said that my right to kill you if you hurt her would be revoked. It was still only a tiny nick and I was out within an hour."

Shawn looked at Carlton for a moment, and finally, his mouth twitched into a grin. "That'd do it, though, eh, Lassiter? You'd love to empty your firearm into my gorgeous, hairy chest, wouldn't you?"

Carlton rolled his eyes. "I've been shot six other times, but I was wearing the Kevlar vest for those. Lots of bruising, but I was back to work the next day. Like I was gonna sit around watching TV." Carlton thought about his recent decision to have a life. If he were shot tomorrow (and he lived) he would happily take the time off. He would sit on his couch and let Marlowe dote on him and watch TV and just rest.

Still, he had no intention of getting shot. He was going to have a life, but he wasn't going to be forced out of the career he had built for himself here. It was simply that now, he had a life at home, away from this heavily-tiled, God-forsaken place, and he was eager to leave at the end of the day. Then he would definitely sit in front of the TV and rest, and eat dinner with Marlowe and go up to bed with her and fall asleep with her arms around him after they had doted on each other in a proper fashion.

At the top of the stairs, Shawn looked at Carlton, taking in his sharp suit and black and blue tie, and shiny black shoes. "You never stop, though, do you?"

"Never stop what?"

"Fighting."

"No. Why would I do that?" What a ridiculous question.

"Well…don't you get tired? Day in, day out, coming in here, seeing all…_that_…" he pointed downstairs. "It must wear you down."

"It does. But unlike you, Spencer, I'm obligated. It's my duty. I took an oath. It may sound boring and corny and archaic to you, but I take it seriously. It's how a man behaves when the times get hard that proves what kind of man he is. Otherwise he's not a man and he's good for nothing at all."

"And what do you think makes a man, Lassie?" Shawn said, finally shaking off his unease from downstairs.

"A man is what he fights for, Spencer."

* * *

><p>"Detective Lassiter?"<p>

Carlton looked up from his Philly cheesesteak and studied the man standing at his desk. He was wearing Federal black, with black tie and black shoes and black shades. Great. Serial killer rule book, top of the list of Things To Do: Bring in the FBI.

"I'm Agent John Whitestone, from the FBI."

"Whitestone…" Carlton stood up, and politely clasped Whitestone's hand with his own, and flinched at the man's strong grip. "Lassiter."

"I've heard about you."

"Fabulous."

"That was not the term used when they told me about you," Whitestone said, taking his shades off. He was strongly built, dark-haired, green-eyed, probably about forty. "I'm with the FBI's serial killer profiling unit. I would like to start working on a profile of the one you're contending with." He had a strange accent that Carlton couldn't quite place. And his hair seemed unkempt. Or maybe it just wasn't quite controllable.

"Have at it." Carlton's cell phone rang. Whitestone raised his eyebrows when he heard _The __Good, __the __Bad __and__ the __Ugly_'s famous theme, and Carlton answered. "What?"

"Mr Lassiter, this is Mrs Claypoole, from the real estate agency. Returning your call…"

"I don't have time to talk to you now."

"I've been trying to contact you all day!"

"Well, then. I'm It, in this game of phone tag now. I'll call you back." He hung up and looked at Whitestone. "We'll show you what we've got."

Juliet came around the corner, excitedly waving a folder in her hands. "Carlton! We've got a lead. A tiny one, but one just the same and…uh…" She paused when she saw Whitestone, who raised one eyebrow at her. "Hi."

"This is Agent Whitestone…FBI," Carlton said distractedly, taking the file from her and flipping it open. "What lead?"

"The girls…all dark haired, all tallish and slim, pretty…" She continued to stare, wide-eyed, at Whitestone. "They were all sort of…runaways, or just loners. One girl's parents said she was just sort of slow, and odd…"

Carlton read over Juliet's report, accustomed to her girlish handwriting, but there were a few words he couldn't quite decipher and he knew he would have to get her to translate. Maybe she knew Croatian.

"So the killer prefers victims that are isolated and socially inept," Whitestone said. He took the folder from Carlton, who eyed him coldly, and was surprised when Whitestone actually looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry. Force of habit. When you're finished reading it, may I see?"

Juliet was still staring at Whitestone as he leaned back against Carlton's desk, looking relatively relaxed. She cleared her throat. "So…uh…are you from the local field office?"

"Yes. Got out of Quantico a year ago."

"Oh, so you're kind of…new…?"

"No. Ten years there, working in the profiling unit. Before that, it was with the Johannesburg, South Africa police. Last year, I decided I was sick of shoveling snow and raking leaves and decided to move to California. New horizons, new atmosphere."

"Right."

"O'Hara, what the hell does this mean? 'The odious terry is thut a crouton is the keller'?"

"The obvious theory is that a Croatian is the killer'," she corrected, still studying Whitestone. He looked very federal, yes, but he also had pretty green eyes and a nice chin and his nose didn't look like a bet his parents had lost with God. He was very federally serious, but she caught a little hint of humor - and straightforward honesty - in his eyes that made her figure he would be easy to work with. Just like Carlton.

"Good. I was having trouble imagining a small piece of dried bread as a murderer." He went to hand the folder to Whitestone, but the FBI profiler was looking at Juliet. He paused, brow furrowing, and looked at them both. He cleared his throat – loudly – and they both jumped.

"Oh. Right." Whitestone took the folder and began reading. Carlton eyed his partner, who smoothed her hair back in a typically female 'I'm-totally-in-control-so-why-are-you-staring-at-me-like-that-and-by-the-way-stop-now?' fashion and sat down at her desk. She was online immediately. Whitestone moved out of Carlton's way and the detective sat down. "Your theory is very well-grounded," he finally said. "Now, we just need to start working on it."

"Thank you," Juliet said with a smile.

"One thing we learn, right off, is that when we hear hoofbeats, we think horses, not zebras."

"Bays, blacks, or chestnuts?" Juliet grinned.

Carlton couldn't believe what he was seeing.

* * *

><p>Home. The scent of vanilla. Marlowe singing <em>Sweet<em>_ Dreams_ (a little off-key) in the kitchen, accompanied by a kind of low thumping. Alarmed, Carlton rushed into the kitchen and stopped in his tracks when he saw she was only chopping up green onions.

She turned and saw him, dropping pieces of onion on the floor. "Hi," she said with a grin, and bent to pick the bits of onion up.

"Hi."

"I met Mr Grady. Somehow, I feel safer knowing he's around, with his gigantic leafblower."

"Yeah, me too."

She came over to him, wearing an apron that looked to have been stained with some kind of sauce, and stood on her toes to give him a kiss, but she held her body away from him. As if he really gave a damn if he got Mystery Sauce on his suit. She minded, though, and backed away. "No way, Carlton. That's Hugo Boss!"

"He ain't the boss of me!" he growled at her, but she dodged out of his attempt to grab her and skittered back into the kitchen, giggling mischievously. He almost had her cornered when the phone began to ring. Growling at being interrupted at chasing his girlfriend, he snatched up the receiver. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Detective Lassiter, this is Woody."

"Yes, Woody," Carlton sighed, rubbing his forehead. A call from the ME couldn't spell good news. Then again, last time Woody had called him, he had been hoping Carlton would have lunch with him. For some reason, the Santa Barbara ME had kind of a weird _thing_ about him that gave Carlton nightmares sometimes. He had refused, albeit as politely as he could, and then had needed aspirin.

"I'm afraid they've found another body. It's…uh…another girl. Seventeen. She was killed just this morning."

"Where was the body found?"

"In a trash-covered field near Rotham." Woody sounded thoroughly disgusted.

Carlton closed his eyes and thought of the streets of Santa Barbara, and their general locations – east, west, north, and south. Rotham was northwards, finally arcing west and into the same area where so many Eastern European immigrants were settled. He leaned against the wall, and felt Marlowe's fingertips brush his cheek. He looked at her, and she gave him a look that indicated it was all right if he went back to the station, and from the light in her eyes, he figured she'd keep the bed warm, too. She went back to the stove and resumed stirring something in a pot.

"That's seven, now."

"Right."

"I'll be right there."

* * *

><p>Translations:<p>

French: __Que__l '__enfer,__ c'est __seulement __au __Canada___ – _What the hell, it's only Canada

Irish Gaelic: __Mo Dhia! Mo sinsear a bhí chomh bocht is nathracha!__ – My God, my ancestors were as poor as snakes!


	7. Outrages

A little humor before stuff gets really, really ugly for poor Lassiter. Alas, my vacation is over as of tomorrow morning and I won't be posting as often. Hopefully I can write on the weekends. But then my weekends get hectic too.

I recommend listening to Billy Squier's _My Kinda Lover_ for this chapter.

* * *

><p>"My, my, my, my, my…what a mess."<p>

Police cruisers were everywhere, lights flashing and providing rather good light to the crime scene. A van from the coroner's office was parked at the curb, near a fire hydrant, but that was kind of a minor issue. TV news crews were everywhere, too, and he could hear the hiss of inflated egos as anchors set up for on-the-spot reports. A group of CSI's were standing around, pointing flashlights at a shallow grave that contained the body of a sixteen-year old girl. Trash littered the little field, and Carlton paused briefly as a plastic shopping bag rolled by like hell's tumbleweed, and he walked on, his partner behind him.

"Detective Lassiter," Melissa Hardwicke said, nodding to him.

"What ya got?" he asked tersely. He hadn't even been able to eat dinner. He recalled eating half of his cheesesteak lunch back at the station, and wondered what had happened to it. Had he finished it at some point along the way?

"Sixteen-year old girl. No ID. Died about nine hours ago, according to preliminary findings. She was raped."

Carlton walked past her and stood at the edge of the crime scene, looking down at the body of the dead girl, O'Hara silent beside him. He felt as though cement blocks were being piled on his shoulders, and a pressure was building up behind his eyes. He forgot about the cheesesteak – when had he last slept? He edged past a couple of uniformed cops and got his first look at victim number seven.

She was half-naked, her plaid skirt pushed up around her waist, her bra cut open, and her panties were down to her knees, which were spread apart. He wished someone would at least pull her underwear up and pull her skirt down, so she would have some…privacy. There was _blood_ for God's sake. He swallowed and looked across the way, and was startled to see Vick standing there, looking miserable. He returned his gaze to the dead girl and saw the puncture marks on her chest. She had been stabbed several times. His stomach did something it hadn't done in fifteen years: it lurched.

Hardwicke was at his side, leaning forward a little to acknowledge O'Hara, who didn't seem to know whether she should smile, wave, say 'hi', or what – she finally just nodded but said nothing, choosing to write on her notepad instead as she walked around the body. Funny how a dead body seemed to muddy the basic rules of etiquette. 'Pass the potatoes, please, and by the way, that girl down there was brutally raped and murdered'. "Canvas of the neighborhood gave us nothing," Hardwicke informed him. "I hear the FBI is on board now?"

He nodded.

"Are you okay?" she asked him, brow furrowing.

"I'd sure love to be."

* * *

><p>The plaid skirt was a helpful clue. It was part of the uniform of a local Catholic girls' school, and a brief questioning of the school principal determined the victim to be Dalija Ćaćić. She had been a rather odd girl, heavily into Goth and a definite loner, according to her family and the school authorities. Her parents had immigrated to the United States only two years before, and she had begun to withdraw from them almost immediately thereafter. She was tall – almost five-eight – and slim, dark-haired, and aside from the inky black hair and Liquid Paper pale skin, she was very pretty.<p>

He stood in the morgue and watched her parents sob, the mother brushing the girl's hair, removing bits of dirt and twigs from the black tresses. O'Hara, standing beside him, was just as stoic, just as miserably accustomed to this, and he thanked God she was there to keep him from grabbing his Glock and going hunting for serial killers on his own.

It was an outrage. Simple as that. An _outrage_.

* * *

><p>Carlton arrived back at his house at almost four in the morning. Marlowe was asleep, lying on her side, and he undressed quietly in the semi-darkness, shivering a little in the cold. He climbed in beside her and stretched out on his back, feeling his bones protesting against the silly notion of rest, and fully expected her to withdraw from him and drag away the blanket. Victoria had done that whenever he came home cold, smelling of grief and death, and frequently sweaty and so exhausted he was incoherent. He was startled, then, when Marlowe murmured softly in her sleep and moved toward him, her hand gently sliding across his bare chest as she lined up her body to his and nuzzled his neck. "Mmm…Carlton," she whispered, sighing against his shoulder.<p>

"Marlowe?"

"Mm?"

"Are you ready for the mess that is my life?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him, and her fingers slowly traced the line of his jaw to his chin. "You have nothing to worry about at home, sweetheart," she whispered. "Nothing at all. Now…go to sleep."

* * *

><p>He slept like a rock, with not a single dream.<p>

It took Marlowe three shoves, a tickle, a bit of tapping on his chest, and finally a threat of having water poured on his head for him to finally open his eyes. He looked at her, mock-growling as she stood by the bed, holding a cup of water in one hand and her shoes in the other. She was wearing a faded, cotton wash-softened New Orleans Saints jersey and jeans, which made her look as cute as a button.

"I was about to break out the air horn," she told him, putting the glass on the bedside table. She sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the shoes – Nikes – on.

"What time is it?" he asked, sitting up.

"Eleven-thirty," she nodded. "And before you freak out, someone…Vick?…called this morning and said you had the day off and that if you showed up at the station, she would order snipers to start firing from the roof the moment they see you. I also appear to have the day off, as we finally finished that bear documentary and the PETA whackjobs all finally went home for their yearly showers. So what are we going to do?"

He eyed her, pondering all the wonderful things they could do right now, but then again, he figured she might actually want to get out in the sunshine and crisp December wind – Good God, it was almost New Years! He looked around the room, with the walls still stark white. He hadn't hung anything up yet, and couldn't think of anything _to_ hang up. Marlowe had not completely moved in yet, though she had several things in the bathroom (toothbrush, her own toothpaste, one of those razors for women that couldn't do anything against his own stubble, and a bra and pair of panties that had spent the night hanging on the shower curtain), and he was still debating just asking her to move in anyway. She had already added some softer touches to his décor, and he liked her simple, soft-colored taste. She was into blue and gray and soft pink pastels, which didn't bother him, and liked a mildly African motif, but he could handle that, so long as she didn't bring in those huge, ugly masks or Masai shields. Or peacock feathers. He wouldn't tolerate peacock feathers. Or leopard and zebra skin patterns. That would be a bit much.

"Uh…well, we could…" He rubbed his forehead. He and Marlowe had been keeping their relationship kind of under the radar, as much as he could without making her feel like he was embarrassed to be with her, which he wasn't. It was quite the opposite, actually. It was simply that he didn't want her to get in any trouble with her parole officer and he also didn't want people _talking_. He still wasn't sure if police detectives were allowed to date parolees, much less sleep with them, but he wasn't going to stop seeing Marlowe even if there was a specific law against it.

Never in his life had Carlton Lassiter thought about breaking any law. He looked at her and realized that he would kill or die for this woman. Funny how he had never thought that way about Victoria, or his mother, or any other woman he had ever known, except for O'Hara, but she was his partner…

"Carlton? Are you in there?" Marlowe asked, and he ran a hand through his hair. She looked amused.

"Uh…sorry. I…how do you feel about lunch…a walk on the beach…and target practice?"

* * *

><p>"So which end do I point toward that target-y thing?" Marlowe asked, holding the Glock upside down and pointed toward herself. Carlton briefly felt the entire left side of his body go numb and yelped, grabbing the gun and putting it right side up and pointing out. The safety was still on, but still, he wanted to berate her, but she was laughing so hard he forgot about being angry.<p>

"Don't you do that again!" he hissed at her, trying to sound gruff and commanding, and glanced down the aisle at the young, clean-cut man at the far end, who was firing away, uninterested in them. Marlowe didn't seem terribly impressed with his Bad Ass routine.

"I'm sorry. The look on your face – it was priceless. Now, I pull the trigger and aim?"

"Aim and pull the trigger," he corrected. "Always in that order."

Marlowe nodded and adjusted the earplugs, and proceeded to nail the target with an accuracy that stunned him. Both eyes, throat, center of chest, heart, and…well, that was _scary_. Mr. Target Man had no chance of ever creating more little Target children, that was for sure.

"Wow."

"I should have told you I won a few sharpshooting prizes, when I was younger. I'm from Louisiana, remember? I can also skin a buck, run a trout line, grow tomatoes, and make homemade wine that will put you under a table. You know…a country girl can survive, though I didn't actually grow up in the country. Daddy just insisted all of us learn how to handle firearms properly and _safely_, though he was a little uneasy about giving Adrian guns, because he already liked to play with matches. Fortunately, Adrian can't hit the broad side of a barn with a cow and a catapult, so that turned out to be fortunate and he liked musicals and jewelry a lot anyway, so guns were not going to be part of his future."

He just stared at her, heart pounding. "_Wow_!"

"I also took archery in high school, and did a lot of skeet shooting, too," she explained, removing the earplugs and grinning wickedly at him, watching his expression go from astonished to delighted. "And I do like the element of surprise."

Generally, Carlton hated surprises. This one, though, was pretty damn good. "Wow."

"Is that all you can say?"

"Wow…_za_?"

She started laughing again, which got him laughing, and he felt ten years lift off his age and fly away. He couldn't help but hope those years found their way to Spencer and gave him unreliable knees and gray hair. Not to be petty, of course. He wasn't going to give the little twerp anything else. Like this woman, for instance.

"And I'm an NRA member," she finally told him, giving him a gamine little smile. "And DAR."

Dear God. He was going to have to marry this woman.

* * *

><p>"Okay. Here goes!"<p>

Marlowe smiled at him, swirling her glass of wine as he tossed back his measure. They had stopped by her place and picked up a bottle of her homemade wine before going back to his condo. Now, they were seated at his kitchen table, doing a wine tasting, sans those chalky little crackers. He took a sip, wheezed, and put the glass down.

"Dewberry."

"Dew…" He was blinking rather quickly, and feeling a warm fuzziness spreading through his entire body. He poured himself another glass.

"Dew_berry_. Basically a blackberry, except sweeter and adored by fire ants. That's why dewberries are hard to find," she explained. "I made that wine ten years ago, from a whole patch I found on my parents' property in Metairie. It's properly aged. I use small cedar-wood kegs for dewberry wine, and oak for watermelon and strawberry, because I prefer that particular flavor. It's not like I can fit a Balthazar in my bedroom, so I make small amounts. Enough for two or three bottles at best. How does it taste?"

"A little…aggressive…just a dash of salt…strong, but…uh…s-sweet…with a _kick__ like __a__ Tennessee__ mule_!" He hiccupped, drained the glass, and poured another.

"Describing yourself or the wine?" she asked, taking a sip.

"My girlfriend makes wine," he said, the alcohol loosening his tongue. "My ex-w-wife couldn't even fry _eggs_."

Marlowe giggled. He leaned forward, sloshing the wine a little before taking a deep draught of the almost blood-red liquid.

"You're so beautiful," he said, with the emphatic seriousness only used by small children and drunks, plonking the glass back down on the table, a bit of wine splashing on the table. "So beautiful. Every day, I…I can barely wait to see you. Even if it's just a glimpse, or if I can only hear your voice on…on the ph-phone. Those…those Wednesdays I spent with you were the best days of my life, until…uh…now." He took another sip of the wine, and Marlowe reached across the table and took the glass from him, then removed the bottle from within his reach. "Now you let me make love to you and don't even act like you…you're just…_enduring_ it, and I was going crazy when you said you wanted to…to wait. I had a tantrum. Stomping and cursing…like some damned horny kid…but I wanted you. Want you. Need you…" He swallowed, eyes so blue they were violet.

"I like making love with you, Carlton," she whispered. "A lot. You're amazing."

"You do?" he asked, looking almost childlike as he stared at her. "I…what? Really?"

"Yes. I do. You are. You take my breath away."

"Oh."

He was too drunk to look pleased, or even a little smug. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Marlowe figured she ought to be ready to catch him if he fell over. Frankly she was surprised he had lasted this long. Three glasses – a definite record.

"I love you," he said. "I love you. I _love_ you."

Marlowe smiled, and touched his hand. "I love you, too, Carlton."

He looked down at her hand on his, and stood up suddenly, knocking his chair over, and she moved to him, sighing against his mouth as he kissed her hungrily. She was not surprised, however, when he passed out, his head dropping onto the table with a wince-inducing _thwack_, arms hanging at his sides. Concerned, Marlowe checked his pulse, and lifted one eyelid. He was merely unconscious, but otherwise unharmed.

She sat down and sighed. "I should have started him on the watermelon wine."

* * *

><p>A thump woke Marlowe from a sound sleep, and she sat up, gasping. "What was that?"<p>

Carlton was pretty much dead to the world, and she pondered him for a moment. It had taken a lot of cajoling, gentle berating, and finally enticement to get him to stagger up the stairs (two falls, one against the wall, and then another into an aspidistra that she wasn't sure was going to survive being attacked by a drunken detective) and he had finally managed to get to the bed. She had undressed him, delighting yet again in his strong, fit body and hard muscles, and not minding a bit when he groped her. He fell asleep, though, before things could get any further and she had just laughed and lay down beside him, cuddling against him and listening to him breathe. He didn't snore, which was a relief.

She heard another thump.

Okay. He had a gun – he had several guns – but the one in his bedside table didn't have a clip in it – the clip was swimming with Tootsie Rolls in the candy dish downstairs. She regretted having insisted on that, but he had been fairly reasonable about it. It wasn't as though Marlowe was afraid of guns, or disliked having them in the house. She had read all the statistics – for a woman in particular, having a gun in her home was an excellent idea, and having one on her person at all times was even better, no matter what some bed-wetting Congressman said, so long as she knew how to use said gun. And she did.

Of course, she had also heard of a woman who had grabbed the family jewels of a man who was trying to rape her and kept him…_subdued_ until the police arrived. Sure, the police had nearly wet their pants laughing, but that tactic had worked wonders. Good strong hands and sharp fingernails were good weapons, when no guns were available. She had learned self-defense in high school. She had no intention on demonstrating her skills on Carlton, because she couldn't bear to break his interesting nose or do damage to his…equipment. Spencer might come in handy, though…

She sat up and grabbed Carlton's shirt from the foot of the bed – another thing she had found useful in the past few weeks. His shirts were so comfortable, and far too big for her. She buttoned it up quickly and took a deep breath.

"Carlton?"

He twitched.

"Carlton, wake up. Somebody's in the house."

He lifted his head, winced, and put it down again, burying his face in the pillow.

"Whoever's here, tell 'em to go 'way."

"I'm not sure it would be that simple, Carlton. The clip is downstairs, in the candy dish."

He sat up, bleary-eyed. "What?"

"Go see what's down there!" she hissed. "Find the clip – it's with the Tootsie Rolls!"

* * *

><p>Hangover (n): the disagreeable physical aftereffects of drunkenness, such as a headache or stomach disorder, usually felt several hours after cessation of drinking.<p>

* * *

><p>Carlton stopped in the hallway, observing the aspidistra with some alarm. Poor thing – it looked like a troop of howler monkeys had attacked it and left it for dead. He nonetheless continued bravely onward, heading toward the stairs, and paused at the top when he heard another thump. All right, whoever was down there was about to suffer a severe ass-kicking, because hung over Carlton Lassiter was not a man to be trifled with.<p>

Granted, he would have to sit on the floor and whimper afterwards, but that was neither here nor there.

Stumbling downstairs, he stomped into the kitchen, not giving a damn if he found a thief rummaging through his cabinets, because if he did, the thief would soon be a wet, bleeding pile of bones and wails on the floor. He looked around, saw nothing of interest aside from an empty wine bottle and two wine glasses (one half-full), and stomped into the living room. He stopped, standing perfectly still, and listened. No sounds, but he sensed that he wasn't alone. He looked up the stairs and could see the bedroom door was closed. Marlowe wasn't into trying to scare him, and she wasn't into cruel practical jokes. He looked around the room again, and took a slow, deep breath.

Damn. He had left the Glock upstairs. He couldn't remember, now, where his other gun was. On the mantelpiece? He stepped toward it, snarled, and grabbed the gun. He stalked to the coffee table, interrupted the clip from its visit with its Tootsie Roll friends, and smacked it into the Glock. He breathed in and looked around the large room, taking in the suede-covered couch and easy chairs, end tables, and the coffee table. Marlowe's cellphone and iPad were there, and his wallet, checkbook, and badge were there as well. He kept the safety on the Glock and took another breath. What was that smell…?

It took only a few moments, then his temper flared. Badly. His jaw clenched so hard he could have sworn he felt a tooth crack. _Pineapple_!

"All right, Spencer, Guster. Both of you, come on out."

The hall closet door finally opened a little, then a little more, and finally the two young men came out, holding up their hands and looking more than a little embarrassed. Carlton put the gun on the mantelpiece, because it would only upset O'Hara if he actually shot Spencer, and the last person he wanted to face was Guster's mother.

"Hey…er…Lassie. Fancy seeing you here!"

"Why are you in my house?" Carlton asked, keeping his voice mild and low. Even strangely friendly. It wasn't as though he could afford to start yelling now. His head was starting to hurt. Horribly.

"Uh…well, we were…conducting a series of…er…experiments," Shawn finally said, hands still up.

"How did you know we were here?" Guster asked.

"I smelled stupidity and despair."

Both men looked offended. _Offended_.

"Well, I'm not the stupid one!" Shawn said, indignant.

"What, so that means I smell like despair?" Guster grouched.

"You're both going to smell like torn, searing flesh soon, if you don't tell me why you're in my house!" Carlton finally shouted at them, and immediately felt like his brain had exploded. He sat down in the chair by the fire and held his head in his hands. Shawn was immediately solicitous, rushing over to put his hand on Carlton's shoulder.

"Hey, man, it's not a big deal. We were just doing some…you know…ghost hunting."

"In my house? Without my permission? Without asking?" Carlton asked, sounding absolutely bereft, which startled Shawn, who immediately felt pretty bad.

"Well, it had to be a controlled experiment, see? We had to make sure that the ghosts didn't know we were coming. If we had asked you and then come in here and set up for the hunt, they would have known and…"

Spencer caught the expression on the older man's face and took a step back, out of immediate reach.

"He has an expression of mayhem on his face," Guster said at last.

"Yeah," Spencer said, looking philosophical. "Like he wants to get the Glock again. Remember the last time we really made him mad? He uprooted a mighty Sequoia."

"But we did…_hear_ something," Guster said suddenly. "We heard…thumps."

"Well. Isn't that nice?" Carlton said, between gritted teeth.

"I wouldn't say nice, really. It was sort of like thumps you'd hear when something was…uh…moving around between the walls."

"Get out. Get out, both of you, before I shoot you. Go. Now. Out."

"Aren't you curious?" Shawn asked, but he started heading toward the door, even though Carlton was still sitting there, seething. "Hey, dude, we're just trying to help and…" He looked behind him, toward the stairs, and drew in a breath when he saw Marlowe standing at the top of the stairs, wearing Carlton's shirt and a disgusted expression, her hands on her hips. "Holy…cheesecake…"

"Mr Spencer, what in the name of Mother Dixie are you doing in this house?" she asked him, stalking down the stairs. Good Lord, that woman had legs. Long, slender, glorious legs. Spencer could barely take his eyes off them.

"We were conducting a series of experiments," Gus finally said, actually attempting to sound righteously lofty.

"On what?" Marlowe asked, coming toward them, eyes narrowed and lit up with baby blue rage. Shawn swallowed, looking from her to Carlton and back. They were definitely a matched set, and Marlowe definitely was as no-nonsense and straightforward as Lassie, but he sensed this girl packed one hell of a punch. Just like Lassie, actually, Shawn thought, remembering the time the detective had punched his lights out. Sometimes, his jaw still ached from that punch.

"Uh…well, the theory is that Lassie's place is haunted and…"

"_Lassie_? His name is Carlton Lassiter. Not Lassie, you silly little fraction of a man. Lassie was a _dog_! Carlton is a detective – who was arresting criminals while you were still waiting to find hair on your balls…which I frankly doubt have even dropped yet! How dare you break into his home! He would be perfectly justified in blowing what little brains you have out! And you…here I thought you were a relatively decent person!" she snapped at Gus, who took a step backwards, startled.

"We think Detective Lassiter's home might be haunted," Shawn finally said, with as much dignity as he could.

"Now you listen to me!" Marlowe snapped. "If you want to truly be frightened, you can piss me off! Do you really want to know what I can do to you? It may nor may not involve a gun, but it will be painful and it will scar you for life!"

"Uh…no. Definitely not," Shawn said, taking a few more steps backwards. He clattered into the fireplace and knocked over the iron instruments that were apparently used to maintain a fire but actually looked like something out of Torquemada's playbook. Marlowe picked up one of the instruments, which looked like a cross between a pickaxe and a sword, and took a step toward him. " We heard something! We did, Marlowe! But we'll be going now! Running! Possibly screaming, maybe crying!"

"And maybe even wetting our pants…but we did hear something!" Gus said, grabbing Shawn and dragging him back to his feet. The two young men scrambled out of the house and into the night, running for the Blueberry, both of them babbling in terror. Only when she heard the car screeching out of the parking lot did she look at Carlton, who was still seated in the chair by the fireplace, eyes wide.

"You know," she said. "I almost get the impression, under all that stupidity and lack of moral resolve, that those two actually do care a lot about you."

"They broke into my house," he said, looking dazed.

"An alarm system would be useful," she finally said.

"Spencer can get past any alarm system."

"Dogs?"

"Dogs love the little twerp."

"Uh…hm…well, I know a trick or two. Come on up to bed. You clearly need some rest. Tomorrow, raw eggs, a dash of brandy, a hot shower and some sex and you'll feel fine."

"Okay."

"You know," she said, as she helped him to his feet and started leading him back toward the stairs, "it is rather interesting that as an Irishman, you aren't interested in the _possibility_ of ghosts."

"I don't believe in ghosts. And I'm not entirely Irish, remember. I've got a lot of German blood, so at any moment, in my current state, I might invade Poland."

She laughed. "Part Irish, part German?"

"I'm a very neat drunk."

"I'll say. You insisted I fold your pants before I put you to bed."

"I can't help it. I need help."

"I know. It's okay. C'mon. See the nice step? That's good…up the steps…here we go. Let's not fall into the aspidistra again. It didn't come out looking too good after the last fight. Here we go now…back to bed…"

"I really do love you," he said sleepily.

"I love you, too," she said, giving him a kiss and a little shove into the bedroom. He almost went down, but she was fast enough to put her weight under him and prevent him from falling on his face. For her lack of size or heft, Marlowe was a strong woman and she soon had him sprawled out on the bed again, wearing nothing but his shorts and a rather goofy smile. She didn't care. She turned out the light, said a quick prayer for his headache to be easily cured, and climbed in with him, snuggling into his arms and laughing when he started singing the theme from _Cops_. He had a good voice. She could listen to him all day.

* * *

><p>Dewberries really do exist, and are found in my part of the state of Texas (central Texas, north of Austin). Alas, fire ants consume them the second they're ripe (which is why we loathe and despise fire ants and seek colorful and vicious ways of killing the stinging, hateful little jerks). I haven't had one in years, but they're delicious. I've not had dewberry wine, though, because I don't drink. But I have a feeling it puts folks under.<p> 


	8. Glint

A jog through the park near his condo left Carlton winded and touchy. Mid-shower, Marlowe opened the door and handed him a steaming cup of coffee, telling him to wake up and that she had laid out a nice suit for him. He had never consumed coffee while wet and naked before, but it actually had its merits, and when he came back downstairs, he felt vaguely human again and the chill was gone from his bones.

The blue shirt softened his features a little, and the sharp Hugo Boss jacket fit him perfectly. Marlowe had shown that she was not only good at making wine and shooting things, but she also had excellent taste in what kind of clothes he should wear. Granted, she also liked him in jeans and T-shirts, too. Or, frankly, nothing at all, playfully wrestling with her in bed. She had not yet been able to convince him to shorten his sideburns, but progress was progress, she had told him.

"Are we doing anything tonight?" she asked him, as she brushed his lapels and shoulders, straightening his tie. People at the station were commenting that he was becoming a clotheshorse, and those comments were made with real grins, not mockery. O'Hara had even said he looked downright dashing these days, even if he looked tired.

"I'm hoping we can eat dinner somewhere."

"Really? Like…?"

"Applebee's?" he grinned at her.

"Very funny."

"I'm in the mood for steak tonight. A big, thick, juicy steak. Porterhouse. Baked potato the size of a cat, a big salad, and a bottle of beer. PBR, preferably."

"Now you're talking," she grinned back. "You bring the A1, I'll bring the Lea and Perrin's."

"Only problem is that every steak place in town will be packed. In fact, every place will be packed, including McDonald's and that weird place that smells like too much like Woody's office for my comfort."

"Yeah, there's a fly in the ninety-proof," she sighed. "Well…I could go buy some steaks. I've got the cole slaw ready, and the black-eyed peas and the ham, too. That's a must on New Year's, y'know. You can grill the steaks outside!"

"And freeze to death."

"It's not that cold!" she said tartly. For some reason, Marlowe could tolerate cold, and seemed to relish it. Carlton started shaking when the temperature dipped below fifty, and his teeth chattered at forty degrees. "You can wear a hoodie, a parka and fire-repellant underwear."

The simple, quiet domesticity of their life together was so soothing it almost scared him. The word 'marriage' had not been mentioned. Yet. She was all but living at his condo, though her address was still across town and she swung by every couple of days by to pick up her mail. Her roommates were still trying to figure out what she saw in the gruff detective, but for the most part they were nice to him and he to them. He had even tolerated a Friday night at her house, playing poker with the guys ($642 now in his checking account) and being introduced to a few of her girlfriends, which wasn't half as hellish as he'd expected. He only walked by the kitchen once, to overhear one of her friends whisper, 'God, he's got gorgeous eyes!' and another ask, 'What's he like in bed?', which had gotten a giggle and an unintelligible answer from Marlowe that seemed fairly positive.

"You're a laugh riot," he told her dryly. "I'm dropping you off, right, at your parole officer's…office?"

"Mm." She tied her hair back with one of those clippy-things that Carlton never could figure out what to call, and straightened her clothes. She was wearing a soft camel-colored sweater and a denim winter-white skirt, and cute little saddle shoes, and she pulled on _his_ leather duster – Marlowe had called dibs on it for cold weather, mainly because it was warm and also because she said it smelled like him. His comment about how nice it was to have someone think he smelled like a dead cow had only made her laugh and sock him in the arm. "I'll take the bus back across town."

"You'll take a _cab_," he said firmly.

"Carlton…"

"A cab," he said again.

She sighed.

"Promise me?"

"Okay, okay. A cab."

"Thank you."

* * *

><p>Whitestone was already at his place, beside O'Hara's desk, when Carlton arrived at the office, grumbling a little because of the cold and how his hands felt numb. They had made few inroads on the serial killer case, and the press was starting to make all kinds of rude noises about it. The rag that liked to call him Detective Dipstick was being particularly nasty, and that wasn't helped when Juliet tore into one of their 'reporters' one afternoon and threatened to shoot his little editor off if he ever said anything unkind about Carlton again.<p>

She smiled brightly at him, and he _knew_ what she was thinking. When was he going to give in and go on a double date with her and Shawn? She had brought it up one night, while they were going over case notes, and he had told that he would be delighted to, as soon as the Detroit Lions won the Super Bowl. She had bounced away, practically squealing with excitement (the Super Bowl being just a month or so away), and had come back ten minutes later looking very, very displeased with him and had given him the cold shoulder for almost an entire hour.

The _last_ thing he wanted to do was not only cope with Spencer, but cope with Spencer trying to get a rise out of Marlowe.

Carlton sat at his desk, looking at the photos of the seven victims that they had taped to the chalkboard. Seven girls, seven names, seven lives snuffed out just as they were starting to take flight. He stared at the board for a moment, then turned back to his monitor and logged in. Whitestone came over, O'Hara at his heels and they settled in to go over the case notes.

Whitestone was, to Carlton, a pretty steady guy. He kept concise notes, listened more than he talked, and had called in every single resource he could to get started on writing up his profile of the killer. Carlton had read over the man's initial ideas and found that he agreed with them all, which was in itself rather scary. For instance, Whitestone theorized that the killer had grown up in a 'psychologically terrifying' household, longed for attention and admiration, and had found it impossible to pursue romantic relationships with women, yet it was very likely that the man was married and had fathered children. He was also roughly between age forty and fifty, from the way Whitestone saw it, and 'probably in a position of some authority, possibly a minor government drone', where he could operate under the radar.

The son of a bitch has kids, Carlton thought, looking through Whitestone's notes again. And here I am, forty-two, divorced, and childless. He sat back in his chair and called himself several nasty names before continuing, catching O'Hara's curious look.

"We need to start talking with whatever community leaders are in that particular neighborhood," Carlton said, and caught Whitestone's nod. "Including civic leaders, clergy, regular patrol officers…everybody that moves and shakes in that area and knows the people…the gossip, too. And find out who represents that area in the City Council."

Juliet nodded and snatched up her phone.

"And we need a translator who is not a Uruguayan by way of Germany."

* * *

><p>Lots of teenaged girls were coming to the station now to talk, but so far, none of them had given them any useful leads (aside from where to get really nice jewelry, which Carlton had taken note of with regard to Marlowe's birthday). Carlton passed a giggle of them on his way to his desk and noted that so many of them were tall, dark-haired, slim and pretty. That alone made him want to park them all in protective custody until they were either in college or knew how to use a pistol effectively. He had gone out for lunch and was not terribly surprised to see Spencer and Guster in the bullpen, chatting with O'Hara and Whitestone, when he got back.<p>

"So we've got the FBI in on this case?" Shawn asked Lassiter as he sat down.

"Yep."

Shawn turned to the FBI profiler. "So you're Whitestone, huh? Originally from South Atlanta?"

"South Africa," Whitestone nodded. "Joburg."

"He means Johannesburg," Juliet said, giving her boyfriend a brief stinkeye.

"Right. I was gonna ask if there was a Jimbobtown near there, or a Billyjoeville. Did you ever meet Sharlto Copley? He was amazing in _District __9_. Made me swear off prawns for…almost a whole day."

"I never met him, no. I don't think we move in the same circles," Whitestone answered with a wry smile.

Carlton's phone rang. He answered and winced at a familiar voice – Hardwicke. "Detective Lassiter, I'm afraid we've got another body."

* * *

><p>"It's so strange that we're finding bodies in places like this," Juliet told Carlton as they stood by a squadcar, drinking coffee and watching the coroner's wagon pull up. Two men got out and made their way down to the little hill to a small swale, in while the body of a fifteen-year-old girl had been found early that morning by a pair of kids on their way to school. She had been stabbed multiple times, in the chest, the stomach…the eyes.<p>

"He's operating in places where no one will hear anything," Carlton nodded. "I was reading recently – in Eastern Europe and in Russia, a lot of people believe that the eyes of a murder victim will hold the image of their killer."

"So you really think the murderer is from there," she nodded.

"Right. I was thinking it was a Serb for a little while – bad blood, between Croats and Serbs – but somehow that just seems too obvious. I think it's a Croatian. How else could he be so comfortable moving around among them? It has to be someone they figure they can trust, right?"

Hardwicke trudged over, looking worn down. "We found some fibers on the body that don't seem to match anything she's wearing. Such a pretty little thing…" She shook her head, then pulled herself back together. "We'll send you all the info as soon as we get it, Detective."

He looked at Juliet, then at Hardwicke. "_Detectives_."

* * *

><p>Carlton read the report, feeling more and more miserable at every word. Danijela Lulić. Excellent student, 4.0 GPA, National Honors Society, had ambitions of being a pediatrician ("loved babies"), cheerleader, sprinter with the school track team. Held the school record for the fifty yard dash…<p>

He rubbed his eyes. She had not been into Goth or really anything unusual at all. The wildest she got was going to the mall with her friends, and even then she was frugal with her money and never bought anything she didn't need. Her parents owned a small restaurant in the neighborhood and were successful but still quite modest…

The mall.

Santa Barbara had more malls than he cared to think about, and he never went to them. A quick search online revealed _nine_ of them, including a big outlet mall near the beach. All were major hangouts for local teens, of course, and there was a largish mall in the neighborhood where the killer was operating. The body had been found less than a mile away from that very mall. He got up quickly and grabbed his jacket. O'Hara, reading through the coroner's report, looked up.

"Where are we going?" she asked him.

"The mall. C'mon."

* * *

><p>"Don't even look <em>toward<em> the Payless, O'Hara," Carlton said.

They were sitting at a table in the mall food court, and Juliet could tell her partner was smacking the puzzle pieces together in his mind, possibly with a hammer. Still, she suspected there would be logic behind his conclusion. He rarely came up with wild ideas.

"He's finding victims here," he finally told her. He nodded toward the small groups of teenagers milling around or sitting at the tables, and then he gestured more specifically toward the girls sitting by themselves, drinking their sodas. "Danijela Lulić wasn't like the others, but she might have known her killer, or at least recognized and trusted him…"

Juliet looked at the girls again, then at her partner. "Okay, it's an idea. I'm not sure if I completely agree, but it…does make sense. This mall is open 'til nine, right?"

"The majority of the stores close at nine," he nodded. "Only the aisle kiosks are open to ten, and by then the mall is a lot less busy, and so he could be…hunting then, and not be noticed outright." He consulted his notes. "We should start asking around. You start at the north end, I'll start at the south, and we'll work our way back here."

"Right, partner," Juliet nodded. She stood, glanced at the Payless for just one defiant second, and walked away, heading toward Sears while Carlton started toward Macy's.

* * *

><p>It was almost ten o'clock. Carlton had been to every kiosk from Macy's back to the food court, refusing offers of skin care product samples made from salt from the Dead Sea, cell phone skins, toy helicopters (that was hard to resist, actually), watches, purses, calendars, and henna tattoos to ask if any of the kiosk operators had ever seen anyone accosting young girls. He was at a watch repair kiosk now, watching a lanky young man with spiky red hair replace a watch battery. The customer finally paid and left, and the kid ambled over to Carlton, who flashed his badge. The kid froze, eyes widening. "Hey, man, I'm off parole now."<p>

For a moment, Carlton wondered if anybody in Santa Barbara had a completely clean record. "Good for you. I need to ask a couple of questions."

"Okay…"

"Have you seen anyone around here…maybe an older man, going up to girls and maybe harassing them?"

"No…"

"No one at all?"

Spiky Hair looked up into middle space, thinking, and finally looked at Carlton. "Well, there was a guy a few nights ago. He was talkin' to some of the girls there at the theater over there," he pointed. "But they kinda blew him off."

"What did he look like?"

"Tallish, I guess. Kinda funny-lookin'."

"So it was a tall Steve Buscemi?" Carlton asked tightly.

"Huh? No. Just kinda funny-lookin'. He was carryin' a bag."

"A bag?"

"A…leather bag. A satchel. Or is it called a valise? I only noticed 'cause, hey, you're at a mall, you carry shopping bags, not leather bags."

Carlton wrote this information down – 'Steve Buscemi, leather valise' – and gave Spiky Hair a vague nod. "Anything else besides 'funny-looking'?"

"Uh…big glasses. Other than that, he was…just kinda funny lookin'."

* * *

><p>Juliet wished to God she hadn't worn heels to the mall. What kind of moron wears heels to a mall? Sure, heels make your butt looks good and show off your legs, but when it was all said and done your back is killing you and you know your self-centered boyfriend isn't going to offer to massage them and you end up with hammer toes that make you limp and that ruins the whole purpose of wearing the damned heels in the first place, and Shawn would rather watch <em>Laverne <em>_&__ Shirley_ and ask her to go order Chinese. Which made her even more annoyed that _Carlton_ of all people was in a stable relationship with another grownup. Sometimes, she didn't know if she should slap Shawn or yell at Carlton. Either way, it was starting to get to her.

She was drinking an Orange Julius and contemplating the Cinn-A-Bon, wishing it was open, when Carlton came striding up to her, looking agitated and excited all at once.

"I know how he's doing it!"

"Okay. How?"

They started walking toward the exit, Juliet wishing her partner would give her a lift, and he began explaining.

"He's coming to malls, seeking out the loners, or at least girls that are alone, and he'll talk to them and gain their confidence…"

"Who would be stupid enough to go off with a stranger, though?" Juliet countered. "When I was little, I was taught to scream 'Fire!' when a stranger tried to grab me and then run to the nearest woman."

He stared at her, brow furrowing. "Right. Good idea. And when the stranger pulls out his gun, he can shoot you both. I think the girls know him. He _has_ to be somebody they know, if only slightly, and that they think they can trust. We're ruling out Serbs entirely, of course, and we're going to concentrate entirely on higher-ups in that community. Somebody most of them know or at least know _of_."

"So what do we do?"

"A…well, a stakeout, I think."

"At the mall?"

"A stakeout, O'Hara. We will not be doing any shopping."

"Not even during dinner breaks?" she asked, trailing after him as they made their way to his car.

"Fine, fine – you can shop during breaks. I'll look around in Victoria's Secret and you can case The Limited."

"Victoria's Secret? Looking for a present for Marlowe?" she asked. The flash of light in his eyes made her figure she was right.

* * *

><p>Marlowe raised her eyebrows when Carlton came trailing into the condo, carrying his briefcase and looking bone-tired. She smiled at him and watched him do what he did <em>every<em> night – he removed his jacket, his badge, his holster and Glock, then his wallet, his cell phone and his checkbook from his pocket and placed them all on the coffee table. He removed the clip from his gun and dropped it in with its Tootsie Roll buddies and sat down on the couch, kicking his shoes off and stretching his legs out. He rested his stocking feet on the table. He sat back, closed his eyes, undid the top buttons of his shirt, and began rubbing his temples.

She refused to let him drink when he got home from work. There had only been a brief tiff over that, and he had conceded to her wisdom. Alcohol wasn't going to help, and he knew it. Instead, she would keep his dinner warm, sit and watch him eat until his plate was clean, and then take him to bed and give him a proper workout that would have him sleep like a rock afterwards.

"A bit tuckered out?" she asked.

"Hm? Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's okay. What did you do today?" he asked, looking up at her.

"We're starting on editing a documentary about the life and films of Frank Capra."

"Ah. Sounds interesting."

"It is, actually. We're heavy into _It's __a __Wonderful __Life_ now. We're just working on preliminary stuff. The techie stuff at this point." She sat down beside him and snuggled against him. He turned the TV on and watched Ryan Seacrest introduce Lady Gaga onto the stage at Times Square. She was wearing what looked like a beaver on her head and most of the contents of a can of Reddi Whip across her chest.

"Dear God. I swear that woman is from another planet."

"Maybe that's really Weird Al Yankovic. Did you see his parody of _Made This Way_ on YouTube? It's hysterical. I spilled coffee all over the keyboard."

"I did see it. I had nightmares for a week." He sighed and resumed rubbing his temples.

"The ball's about to drop!" Marlowe said excitedly, and looked at Carlton. She was not terribly surprised to see he had fallen asleep, mid-temple-rub. She smiled and touched his cheek, his stubble tickling her fingers. He looked so _tired_. His hair was messy, he needed to shave and shower and sleep for a few months, and she could see his stress and worry. For tonight, though, he was going to _relax_.

"Carlton?" she whispered. "Come on, sweetheart, wake up."

He snuffled grumpily and opened his eyes. They watched the ball drop as the final seconds of 2011 ticked by, and finally, the giant 2012 flashed, the crowd in Times Square making enough noise to be heard from space. Marlowe met Carlton halfway, and they kissed, his arm slipping slowly around her waist and pulling her closer, until she was finally straddling his hips and slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

"You're not really sleepy, are you?" she asked softly, as she pulled her blouse off and tossed it away, followed by her bra.

"Not any more," he said, pulling her closer, touching her silky skin, delighting in her, thanking God for her.

"Good. Because I can't think of a better way to start the new year. Can you?"

"Who needs to think at a time like this?"

* * *

><p>"God, I hate malls," Carlton said.<p>

It was January the third, and Lassiter, O'Hara, Spencer and Guster were gathered in a little group at the mall entrance.

"Listen, everybody. No shopping or getting distracted by shiny things," Carlton said, directing a sharp look at Spencer, who had the nerve to look offended. "We are looking for any man who might be accosting teenaged girls."

"And looks like Steve Buscemi and Woody Allen's love child," Shawn nodded.

"Spencer!"

"Hey, listen, I'm just trying to lighten the mood a little. We are at the entrance to the very epitome of American consumerism here. You're nervous. It's a place to socialize, and you have no social skills. You hate fashion, because you have no sense thereof. Lots of people are here with their friends or their family, none of which you have…so therefore, Lassie, you are out of your element. A fish out of water. A buffalo out of his herd. A pumpkin out of his gourd…somebody stop me…"

Carlton thought about Marlowe telling him he looked sharp that morning, and ignored Shawn, who thought Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of a constipated monkey on it was the height of fashion, and his only actual friend was Guster. Still, he had to put on a proper show, to keep up appearances. "Spencer, if you don't shut your yap I will tear off your arms and beat you to death with them. Now. O'Hara, you head east, I'll head west. Spencer, head north, Guster, head south."

"The South has never been a good place for my people, you know," Guster pointed out. Carlton leveled a cool glare at him, and the younger man flinched before striding away toward Macy's.

"And keep your cell phone on!" Carlton yelled after him. Juliet, wearing sensible shoes and feeling rather chipper, eagerly headed off in her assigned direction. Spencer stood for a moment, studying Carlton with interest.

"You got some last night, didn't you, Lassie?" he grinned.

Carlton rolled his eyes and headed west, toward Neiman-Marcus. If he had been one to boast, he would have informed Spencer that he had gotten a lot last night and more this morning in the shower, but that was none of the little twit's business. He actually felt pretty good, all in all. Not once in the past several weeks had he needed antacids, and despite being the point man on the hunt for a serial killer, he wasn't feeling quite so depressed any more. Still kind of moody, yes, but that heartless bastard – hope – was actually just sitting on his shoulder, grumbling about being well-fed and tended to. Hope would do that, the ungrateful little punk, and he'd keep feeding him kibble to keep him there.

He observed groups of girls walking together, all talking a mile a minute about clothes and boys and God only knew what else. He ignored those girls, as they were not the right target. Instead, he observed all the benches that he passed. Tired, bored, ticked-off husbands holding their wives' purses. Old ladies trying to get their feet to uncramp so they could limp to their cars. Groups of teens taking pictures of each other and giggling. Girls dressed like future prostitutes, as far as he was concerned. Boys wearing jeans that were apparently discarded by rodeo clowns. All wore iPods and most were listening to something through one earbud.

He was almost to Sears when he saw a young girl – perhaps sixteen – sitting alone at a little playground. She appeared to be waiting for someone, and so Carlton veered away, taking a seat at a bench across from hers and pulling a crossword puzzle out of his pocket.

He was trying to think of the name of Napoleon's favorite charger when he spotted a man in a light brown trenchcoat walking out of Sears and heading toward the playground. The man sat down at another bench and watched two little children take turns at a slide, and Carlton felt himself tensing, his gut telling him that this case was about to be blown wide open. The man was wearing big glasses…and was carrying a leather satchel. He looked at the girl, who was texting someone, then back at the man – who was gone.

Carlton shot to his feet, looking around, and spotted the man heading toward the center of the mall, walking slowly. He looked at the girl, who finally glanced up at him and made a 'What's your problem?' face. He didn't have one. Her problem was that she was going to live another day. He took off, following the man, keeping on one side of the middle aisle, waving off offers of a try on a massage chair and at indoor bungee jumping, keeping only slightly behind the man.

He was memorizing the man's features the entire time. He was about six feet, a little pot-bellied, dark hair, balding, faded blue eyes, pale skin, poor posture. Blue plaid shirt, corduroy pants, leather shoes. Not threadbare, and he was wearing a wedding ring. Otherwise, nondescript and unremarkable. Roughly forty-five, give or take a few years. He didn't look like a serial killer. Then again, neither did most serial killers.

In the center of the mall, the man paused at a kiosk and bought a cup of coffee, and Carlton got in line two customers behind, listening for his voice, for an accent. However, the mall noise was so loud he couldn't hear anything. The man then went left and Carlton followed, momentarily right behind him before moving around a huge glob of poinsettias decorating the center of the mall and continued along, keeping one eye on the man and the other on the shoppers passing him. The mall was a few minutes away from closing, and people were heading for the exits. Even better, there was no Christmas music playing, which meant he wouldn't feel any urge to shoot the speakers out when _Rudolph __the __Red-Nosed __Reindeer_ started playing.

The man finally took a seat outside Neiman-Marcus, and Carlton looked around. Very few shoppers remained in the mall, and those that remained were heading toward the exits. He finally caught sight of Spencer, who was seated near a fountain, looking around. He watched the man sit down, clutching his valise on his knees, then get up and walk slowly across the courtyard to a young woman – perhaps seventeen – seated by herself, scrolling through texts on her cell phone. She was tall, dark-haired, and rather pretty, if sullen Goth could be considered attractive.

The man sat next to her, and after a few moments, he began to speak to her. She moved away, giving him a narrow look, and Carlton was on his feet, moving toward them. He sensed, rather than saw, Spencer getting up and coming over, too.

"Sir?"

The man looked up at him, and got to his feet. The girl looked up at them, smacking her gum but looking kind of relieved.

He held up his badge. "Detective Lassiter, SBPD. Can you show me some ID, please?"

"My name is Cvitković. Andrej Cvitković." He got his wallet and opened it up, showing Carlton his drivers' license.

"Mr Cvitković, you need to come with us. We need to ask you some questions." He looked at the girl. "Call your parents and _have __them __come __get __you_!"

"Have I done something wrong?" Cvitković asked.

"Can I see what's in your bag, please?" Carlton asked.

Cvitković reluctantly handed him the bag, and he handed it to Spencer, who cautiously opened it and peered inside. He looked at Carlton, eyes wide, for once at a total loss. The detective looked down and saw the glint of the steel blade of a sharp hunting knife.

"Come with us, sir."

* * *

><p>TBC. It's not going to be that easy, kids!<p> 


	9. Bimini

He was on his way to the interrogation room, one foot landing on the second step down, when he heard his own phone ring. How he _knew_ it was his desk phone was a mystery to him, as he knew that it would take a trained Labrador retriever to distinguish one phone at the station from another, but he knew it was his. Turning back, growling, he dodged a uniformed officer and that damned detective who always wore a yellow shirt and got back to his desk before the fifth ring and voice mail picked up.

"This is Detective Lassiter."

"Carlton? This is your mother."

_Oh __dear__ God_.

"…s desk. I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I'll call back as soon as I can, or whenever I feel like it," he said in a pleasant voice. "Beep."

"I hear you're shacking up with some blonde floozy!"

_What?_

"I'm sorry, your message could not be understood. It is recommended that you speak _English_. Detective Lassiter's mother was opposed to him learning other languages, as it would be 'just a sign of weakness'. __En dépit de cela__, je n'ai encore apprendre à parler français dans un collège__."

"Booker!"

"And Detective Lassiter also does not answer to childhood nicknames, such as Booker or Binky, much less threats of being disowned or comments about his choices of lifestyle, hairstyle, clothing, entertainment, relationships, or firearm. If this is Detective Lassiter's mother, she will be aware that when her eldest son requires her thoughts, opinions, ideas or sentiments on any subject, he will draw a pentagram on the floor and chant 'I summon thee' until she appears!" He hung up, swung around and almost collided with Spencer, who eyed him with curious interest. "I don't have time, Spencer."

"Way to talk to Mommy Dearest, Lassie."

"What an apt description – and oddly enough, she had a lot of hangers, too - and I have to go. I'm interviewing Cvitković in five minutes."

"Oh." Spencer swallowed. The man had creeped the psuedo psychic out as much as he had Lassiter, and for once he didn't seem terribly interested in being in the same room with a perp. Carlton wasn't too thrilled about it, either, but it had to be done. "Uh…maybe I'll just…watch from the observation room…see if I pick up anything?"

"Whatever."

"He does have more vowels in his name than you'd expect," Shawn shrugged, keeping up with him as they headed downstairs. "Ever been to Croatia?"

"Nope."

They reached the observation room, and Carlton was surprised to see Melissa Hardwicke already there, drinking coffee and chatting pleasantly with Juliet. He looked over the details of the coroner's report for the last victim, and what he read made his gut wrench again. "You're kidding…please tell me you're kidding…"

"No. We found semen on the body," Hardwicke said grimly.

"_On_ the body?" Carlton asked. He absently handed the folder to Spencer, who read it and actually shuddered.

"Yes. They're doing DNA testing right now." Juliet said. "We could have this case wrapped up soon."

"All right. Are you ready, O'Hara?" Carlton asked, looking at his partner, who nodded.

"Yep. Let's go."

* * *

><p>Cvitković had his hands folded on the table, and stared straight ahead, barely even glancing at Lassiter or O'Hara. He just stared straight ahead.<p>

"Mr Cvitković, why do you have scars on your hands?" Carlton finally asked.

"I cut myself working in my yard."

"On what?" Juliet asked.

"I was cutting back my rose bushes."

"In January?" Carlton shook his head. "You cut them back in early February. Not January, and those cuts look fresh."

Juliet looked at her partner, surprised. How did he know anything about roses?

Carlton opened his folder on Cvitković and read through his information. "You live in Little Zagreb, right?"

"Yes."

"You were seen at the mall a few days ago, carrying that same bag, and you were talking to a teenaged girl, and you were doing the same thing tonight." He took a photograph out of the folder and slid it across the table to Cvitković, who barely even glanced at it. "Do you recognize this girl?"

Cvitković only glanced at the photo and swallowed. "I have never seen her."

"Okay. So let's go to the lightning round, shall we? Why were you carrying a knife in your bag?"

"I work in a factory. I use the knife to open boxes."

"Hm."

Juliet glanced at her partner. That 'hm' meant so many things, and she was accustomed to him making that little sound. It usually meant 'enough with the BS – tell me the truth I'll get out the tire iron'. He was writing on his notepad, and she saw 'avoiding eye contact' and 'swallowing'. She waited. Carlton tapped the end of his pencil on the table.

"So you carry this bag with you everywhere? Even to the mall?"

"I ride the bus home from work," Cvitković told him. "I often stop at the mall to walk."

"And talk to the young folks?" Carlton raised an eyebrow.

"I used to be a school teacher."

"Used to be?"

"I…lost my job, in Croatia."

"Why?"

For the first time, Cvitković looked nervous. "I…fondled the breasts of a twelve-year old girl. It is in my police record. I served my time…"

Juliet winced. Carlton just glared at the man.

"That was in Croatia, sir," Carlton finally managed to strangle out. "And as disgusting as that is, it's not murder."

Cvitković still would not meet Lassiter's eyes.

"Where do you work?" Carlton finally asked.

"Horne's."

"Automotive parts, right?"

"Yes."

"And what position do you have there?"

"I am the purchasing agent."

"Do you have to travel a lot for that job?"

"Sometimes."

"Outside Santa Barbara?"

"Sometimes."

Carlton closed the file and stood up. He gestured toward the observation room, and a few moments later McNabb, looking uneasy, came in. "Take Mr Cvitković to a cell."

"Am I under arrest, Detective Lassiter?" Cvitković asked him.

"Should you be?" Carlton asked mildly.

"I would like to contact my lawyer, please."

"Sure."

* * *

><p>Carlton was surprised when he saw Cvitković's lawyer – he was a partner in one of Santa Barbara's most prestigious firms. He watched the man walk by, with two lackeys at his side, and head downstairs toward the interrogation room. He looked across at O'Hara, who had recognized the man as well, and she raised her eyebrows.<p>

"He's got _Peterson_?"

"Looks like it."

"He can afford an attorney like that on a factory workers' salary?"

"I found my divorce lawyer at a strip mall and he still cost me and arm and a leg."

A few minutes later, Vick came out of her office and gestured for Carlton and Juliet to come in. They trailed in, Carlton loosening his tie and Juliet clutching a short stack of folders. Whitestone was already in her office, looking…_disgusted_.

"We have to release Cvitković."

There was a cold silence in the room as Carlton's back straightened and his eyes narrowed as he thought of General Lee. Karen Vick knew that look, and she glanced at O'Hara, who looked no less pleased.

"Why?" Juliet finally asked, looking at her partner.

"He has…_connections_."

"Yes. To seven dead teenaged girls," Carlton snapped, his voice hard.

"The semen test came back negative. It's not a match to his blood type." She threw the report on her desk.

"So?" Carlton snapped. "Semen and blood types don't always match."

"The evidence is entirely circumstantial, Carlton. He has connections very high in city government. His sister in the mayor's wife," she said, looking as disgusted as Whitestone, who was now standing beside Carlton.

"You're joking!" Carlton snapped. "Tell me you are _joking_, Karen. How many people have we put in jail that were mafia members, politicians…which are pretty much the same thing, by the way…and we didn't give a damn who they were?"

"This is far deeper. Cvitković's family is very prominent. They have money, and lots of it. Even more, the Santa Barbara City Council is going to set up a task force to catch the killer..."

"Who is Cvitković," Carlton snarled.

"…and you'll be meeting with the leaders of the task force tomorrow. They will be coordinating neighborhood watches, phone centers for witnesses to call, and so on. Carlton, we don't know he's the killer," Karen said carefully. "It may look obvious, but we tested the knife and it was not in any way connected to any of the girls' stab wounds. Not _one_."

"So he bought a new knife!"

"Detective, we are releasing Cvitković. Period. Now get back to work!"

Juliet saw her partner's eyes turn black, if only for a second. He drew in his breath, fists clenching and unclenching as he fought to rein himself back in. Finally, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the office, not even slamming the door behind him.

"Can you keep him under control?" Vick asked Juliet.

"Yes. I can."

"Good."

* * *

><p>"So what now?"<p>

"We keep looking for the killer," Carlton said. "We don't have a choice. We have to follow process and procedure. Operate within the law." Only O'Hara appeared to pick up on his mock loftiness, however, and she gave him a sympathetic smile. Her partner was no rogue cop. He didn't even like the _Lethal__ Weapon_ movies.

"Ah, for a post-apocalyptic world," Whitestone said with a wry smile, sipping his margarita.

"So I'd be Mad Max and you'd be…who, exactly?" Carlton asked.

They were eating dinner at a Mexican place a few blocks from the station. Whitestone had never had authentic Mexican food before – his comment about liking Taco Bell had made Juliet stagger away from him, shocked, and had even made Carlton snicker – and so they were treating him. The mild picante sauce was bringing tears to the South African's eyes, and the queso had cleared his sinuses wonderfully. Right now, he was between bites of a burrito grande, his face getting a little redder by the second.

"Uh…the guy who flew the makeshift chopper? The nutjob…?"

"Who looked like that guy from _Eureka_? The old crazy scientist who had an affair with Jo?" Juliet queried. Chicken taquitos made her stomach protest as loudly as those Occupy Wall Street nitwits, but jalapenos made her happy as a clam. A clam with blistered lips, anyway. Carlton tossed her packets of honey and she started opening them up, unselfconsciously smearing honey on her burning lips. Whitestone watched her, momentarily distracted from his own burning throat and dripping nose.

"Okay, this is getting out of hand," Carlton said. "We're mixing movies with TV shows. And I can't blame him for sleeping with Jo. She's pretty hot, and she has a thing for guns, as I recall."

"You watch _Eureka_?" Juliet asked, looking astonished.

"Yet again, you seem surprised that I watch anything but _Cops_. I even sat through _Ghost__ Whisperer_ once_._ Granted, the remote control batteries were dead and I couldn't change the channel…"

"Oh my God! You liked it, though, didn't you?" Juliet giggled. He gave her a narrow look. She was clearly a bit tipsy.

"Who let her have a margarita?" Carlton grouched. "I did not like it." No way in hell would he admit that he also liked that show, much less the _Twilight_ novels (not the movies – he had tried one of them and had come close to digging out his own eyes). He thought briefly of the thumps and bangs that were still occasionally heard at his condo, and how Marlowe would wake him up for every one of them, as if expecting him to go through a play-by-play, but he had not yet yielded to _Ghost __Hunters_, nor had he called Jay and Grant for a consultation.

"So Lassiter would be Mad Max, I would be the guy in the chopper, and Juliet would be…" Whitestone offered. "Were there any women in that movie?"

"His wife was killed at the beginning, as I recall," Carlton said. "He was a cop."

"No, she wouldn't be _her_," Whitestone shook his head.

"Wait, I could be Tina Turner!" Juliet crowed. She was clearly more than a little tipsy, and when she went for her margarita glass, Carlton snatched it away and put it out of reach. She pouted, folding her arms. Had she been standing, she would have stomped her tiny feet and held her breath.

"That's _Mad __Max __Beyond __Thunderdome_," Carlton pointed out. "And you're not tall or scary enough to be Tina Turner. And we need to get her home. She needs to dry out before we meet with that stupid task force."

"Yeah. Uh…I could take her home. It's on my way," Whitestone said. Carlton eyed the profiler for a moment, wondering. Hell, she could do a hell of a lot worse. In fact, she was doing a hell of a lot worse, dating Spencer.

"Yeah, well…all right. O'Hara? Hey, are you in there?"

"I like martagitas," she burbled happily.

"We know. But martagitas don't like you. Don't let her break her neck, 'cause if you do, I'll shoot you," Carlton said, getting up. Whitestone helped Juliet out of the booth, and she collapsed against his chest, giggling happily. Lassiter rolled his eyes, paid for everybody's meals before Whitestone could object, and left.

* * *

><p>"Maybe after you catch this serial killer and I finish my parole, we'll go somewhere, for a vacation," Marlowe said, as he turned off the light and settled in beside her. She had been reading a book – some romance novel that was evidently giving her pointers – and stealing glances at him while he read through the case file for about the <em>millionth<em> time, making notes on a yellow pad.

He yawned and stretched, like a big, rangy cat. "Hm."

She glared at him. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts, and she touched his cheek, which made him jerk, startled.

"You're a little off tonight," she told him, with an affectionate smile.

"What, three times isn't enough?" he grinned at her, and she cuffed his shoulder.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Something about a vacation."

She moved onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him, her hand on his chest. "Where would you go, for a vacation?"

He finally looked at her, softly illuminated in the moonlight. God, she was beautiful. A beautiful woman, in his bed, perfectly willing to not only lie down beside but let him touch her and love her and care for her, and even seemed to enjoy taking care of him. For some reason that still utterly baffled him, she loved him. _She__ loved __him_. She even said so, every morning at breakfast, and every night before he fell asleep.

"Well…before, I would go to the station for a vacation. Or…Alcatraz."

"Please tell me you're joking," she said softly, running her fingers through the silver hair at his temple.

"It is a bird sanctuary. Not that I actually looked at the birds a lot, I admit." He shrugged. "I also go to Civil War battlefields, whenever I'm forced to go on any extended leaves."

"That's not quite so…odd, but still, rather…depressing. All those dead young men. All those lost futures, lost dreams. Almost an entire generation, wiped out. The only good thing that came of it was the end of slavery, of course…and the South being the source of America's great warrior class, rock and roll, and wonderful food." She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip, smiling, catching his raised eyebrow. "Try something a little more cheerful."

"Okay. Okay. Don't tell anybody about this, but…I went to Bimini once."

"Bimini?"

"Yep. Teeny little island in the Caribbean. About seven miles long, seven hundred feet wide. Capital: Alice Town. Lots of shops and bars and several friendly, closely-related dogs. Form of government: vague. Loose goats: yes. Great fishing."

"So you fished in Bimini?"

"No. I sat on the beach and watched the tide roll in and out. Got a nice tan, but it faded away."

"When was this?"

"About eight years ago. Shortly after my wife walked out. The chief of police kind of…_demanded_ I take a vacation, since I was really stressed and had started to get particularly trigger-happy. So I went there, on his recommendation. He had a friend with a little beach house down there and so when I wasn't sitting on the beach, I was sleeping." He let his mind go back to that two-week vacation – the incredible blue of the water, the sea breeze, the complete lack of having any responsibilities or having to think about anything, including his broken heart and his wounded ego. "I'd get up and walk on the beach for a while, then I'd go to Alice Town and eat lunch. Conch. I ate a lot of conch."

"You hate shellfish."

"I like conch."

"Ah."

"I can imitate a conch."

"You can?"

"Mm." He pretended that someone was cracking his skull, then pulled a blank face before finally asking "Now what?" She giggled. "Anyway, I ate a lot of conch and this highly addictive bread that is only made on Bimini. Breakfast, lunch, dinner…sweet, delicious, warm bread. Almost like donuts, really, except better."

"Did you do any sightseeing?"

"Well…there's Bimini Road, and the Fountain of Youth, of course."

"Bimini Road?"

"Yeah. It's just a lot of blocks in the water, at the northern end of the island. They actually seem to form a big 'J'. The theory is that the island was, at some point, Atlantis. But I can't imagine how that would be, because Atlantis was – allegedly – a very busy sort of place and Bimini is not busy. You don't get busy in Bimini. You sleep a lot, and eat a lot. It's not exactly your bustling metropolis. The busiest you get is beating an overly friendly dog off your leg. My theory is that somebody – a giant, maybe - was starting to write a huge phrase out there under the water. Maybe something like 'Just Do It', but he got sleepy and overfed on sweet bread after he finished the 'J' and so he went and sat on the beach and drank banana daiquiris and just kind of…forgot about it. Bimini is the island of sleep and getting up for a nap. Then you eat lunch and take another nap, and before you go out to the bars, you take a nap, then you get back home and take another nap before bedtime. Seriously. I don't recall sleeping so much in my life."

She was laughing in earnest now, amazed. "And what about the Fountain of Youth?"

"Well, I started to go there, but I got so sleepy I took a nap instead. In fact, every morning, I'd wake up and feel so good I'd take a nap. Maybe I should have gone to see that fountain. I wouldn't have half as many of these wrinkles."

She smiled. "So that's a perfect vacation," she said, snuggling against him, slipping her arm across his chest and her leg between his thighs. "Doing nothing at all. Becoming so relaxed you practically melt. Just have somebody come along every now and then and pour a banana daiquiri on you, to keep you alive."

"You know, I'd see the drug dealers sail by in their speed boats that looked like huge marital aids and I actually didn't care. I started to. But I had eaten a bunch of bread and some conch and had a strawberry daiquiri and thought, 'To hell with it. It's not even my jurisdiction'."

"Isn't Bimini owned by the British?"

"I didn't care. The police down there were all asleep. Only a few hundred people live on that island year-round and I don't think they had the wherewithal to hold up a gas station. Okay. It's a deal, Marlowe. When this is all over, we'll go to Bimini. Eat a lot, sleep a lot…"

She smiled into his chest. "Make love a lot."

"Sounds like a plan."

"I love you, Carlton," she whispered.

"…love you…"

* * *

><p>The moment Carlton saw the task force – given the lofty title of The Serial Killer Search Unit – he knew things were <em>not<em> going to go well. They were all, to a man, bureaucrats with no experience whatsoever at searching for lost cats, much less murderers. He took a seat in the chair set before the long conference table, and opened the folder. O'Hara and Whitestone took their seats on either side of him. He glanced at his partner and saw she was pretty well alert. Whitestone also looked alert. They also stole brief glances at each other and Carlton wondered what the _hell_ might have happened last night.

"Detective Lassiter, Detective O'Hara, Agent Whitestone," one of the men said, standing up. "You know me – I'm Mayor Ronaldson. This is the City Councilman for the Little Zagreb area, Milos Stanish."

Juliet looked confused, and Carlton felt a flash of annoyance. He knew O'Hara had a headache and wanted to ask for a clarification. _Did __you__ say __Miles__ Standish_?

The mayor was droning on, introducing other task force members, including what sounded like a neighborhood watch captain for the area in and around Little Zagreb. He wanted to point out that the best thing to do was follow Cvitković around until he slipped up. But since that was _clearly_ not allowed, they had to pursue all other leads, turn over every stone, and slowly go insane as more bodies piled up. He opened the packet of papers and began reading, ears tuned to the mayor, mind skimming over all the evidence that wasn't helping so far.

* * *

><p>January faded, gray and wet, into February, and two more bodies were found in fields on either end of Santa Barbara, both within just a mile of malls. Carlton wasn't sleeping well, but at least he wasn't drinking (Marlowe's orders) and his worst vice was too much coffee during the day. He and O'Hara went over every crime scene with the CSI's, and stood in the morgue, listening while Woody told them about every tiny piece of evidence that was found on or around each body. Tiny fibers. Ligature marks. Stab wounds. Semen. Definite signs of rape on some of the victims.<p>

The phone ringing at his desk. Coroner's reports. Woody looking depressed. Spencer and Guster both subdued, unable to make jokes about anything any more, both staring, aghast, at the crime scene photos beside his desk. O'Hara looking haggard, constantly reloading and unloading her pistol, looking haunted as she methodically performed that task over and over until he would tell her to please for the love of God _stop_.

Standing in the living room of a sobbing couple who had just learned their only child had been murdered. Not having a clue how to comfort them. Waking up in the middle of the night, sweating, gasping for breath.

The nightmares were getting to him. When he did sleep, he saw those girls, or more accurately, what they all could have been and how it was his fault they were all dead, ultimately. Awake, he found that his hands shook sometimes from a combination of cold and nerves. He and Whitestone and O'Hara had formed a solid team, though, and he was relieved to have them both to rely on.

When his own energy flagged, he could count on them both to hold up the slack and keep going. He envied their youth. He also noticed that they stood a little too close to each other sometimes. He wasn't good at nuance or social cues, but he knew at least a little about the rules of attraction: those two were crushing on each other and it was kind of interesting to see, but he wondered sometimes about Spencer.

* * *

><p>Even Spencer noted that Lassiter was showing signs of sheer exhaustion. The older man had bags under his eyes, his gait was slow and sometimes a little shaky, and he had a lot more gray hair. He looked almost like he was sick, and even though Shawn enjoyed pestering the detective – who could give as good as he got in their daily zinger matches – he didn't like seeing him so…<em>off<em>.

To see him sitting alone in a bar after work was a definite anomaly these days. Most of the time, as soon as it was time to sign out, Lassiter was gone, back home to Marlowe and _peace_. But not tonight. He was sitting there at a table, nursing a glass of Jack and looking defeated, which was utterly depressing. Lassiter was many things, good and bad, but _beatable_ was not one of them. The guy was always back on his feet in a matter of seconds, fighting away, no matter what. Doing his duty. Warhorse, indeed, Spencer thought.

There were nine girls now. Nine teenaged girls, all with promising futures, their lives snuffed out by a monster. Shawn knew every one of them was like a dagger through Lassiter's soul, dragging him down and into a dark place he never wanted to see the other man go. He ordered a cup of coffee and took it over to Lassiter's table, took the shotglass and replaced it with the cup.

"Hey, Lassie…enough with the alcohol, eh? Drink some coffee." He sat down across from him, taking in the weariness, the haggard look, and the total lack of light in those startling blue eyes. He was starting to look much, much older than he really was.

Lassiter glared at his _bete __noir_ for a moment, eyes not focusing completely. "Marlowe's parents are in town," he said.

"Oh…so that's why you're not at home?"

"Right. She's having dinner with them tonight, and they're all visiting her brother tomorrow."

"Did you meet them?"

"Last night."

"And what happened?"

"They actually…actually liked me. I think they must both be crazy." He took a sip of the coffee, wincing.

"Well, they'd have to be, right, bud?" Spencer grinned, taking the sting out of the statement. "Listen, man, you need to get some rest or you're just gonna fry."

"I don't sleep and I don't rest until that bastard is caught," Carlton snapped. "Don't you see? It's my job to protect the people of this city. Whether I like them or not or if I know them or not, or whatever. It's my job, and I'm not protecting them. Nine of them are dead. _Nine_."

Shawn nodded. "I know. I know you'll catch him, Lassie. You _will_."

Lassiter ignored him. "With every body, we get another clue. Another tiny piece of the puzzle that will lead us to the killer, with an airtight case. If it's not the first suspect, then a clue will lead us to the right one. I'd rather find two bodies than none at all, if it will just lead us to the killer."

Shawn glanced around the bar. He knew the place was a well-known cop hang-out, and he didn't recognize anybody there, but still, such a comment could be potentially dangerous.

"Listen, dude, you need to go on home. Let me call you a cab, okay? I'll call Marlowe, too. Tell her to go back to your place, eh?"

"No, she needs to see her family. I suspect they're trying to figure out what she's doing with a guy like me, whether they liked me or not." Carlton rubbed his face. "God I'm so tired. I've never been so tired in my life."

"Then get some _rest_, dude."

"Can't do that, Spencer. We had a suspect. Andrej Cvitković. I _know_ he's the killer, but he's got the whole damned Santa Barbara city government protecting him, namely, the mayor. He's just a purchasing agent for an auto parts factory and his sister is the mayor's wife…or something…"

"Hm. Well, as I'm not really an actual police detective, I could…uh…keep an eye on Cvitković, right?"

"No one in the SBPD is allowed to even approach him. Not even consultants. The second anybody saw you, you'd be thrown right into the pokey." He snickered. "You could do the hokey pokey with your cellmate, Butch. Nice guy. Into macramé and dismemberment."

Shawn sighed. "Well, then, we'll just keep working, won't we, Lassie?"

"Work, work, work," Carlton nodded. He took another sip of his coffee. "Couldn't you get cream and sugar for this?" he asked wearily. He rubbed his eyes. "Don't worry, Spencer. I'll call my own cab. Go on home, try to sleep, though I know I won't. I've got to meet with that task force again tomorrow. Another report on our 'progress'. Another exercise in futility."

For once, Shawn Spencer was at a total loss as to what to say. He got his cell and called for a cab anyway, watching the depressed detective drink his coffee.

He had a strong, miserable feeling things were only going to get worse.

TBC


	10. Ashes

I'm actually surprised that I wrote Shawn in a more...mature light. But Shawn has his good points. Anyhoo - some Big Stuff happening here. I hope Lassiter doesn't seem OOC here, but I think everybody's got their breaking point. If you fail to get a little _down_ over a bunch of dead teenaged girls, then there's really something wrong with you, right?

* * *

><p>"Is it entirely unusual for a grown man to eat all the chocolate off a Three Musketeers bar first?"<p>

Juliet stared at her partner for several seconds, unsure of how to answer that question. Finally, she started to clear her throat and give some kind of _sane _reply when Carlton opened the silver packaging around the chocolate bar and studied its contents carefully before extracting it.

"Um…I don't know…"

"Halfsies?"

She watched him break the bar in two and hand her part of it.

"Thank you. Carlton, are you okay?"

"Tired."

"Apparently."

"My mother might be in town. Either that, or the walls are oozing green slime, there's a rushing windy kind of sound outside, and dogs are forming into packs for no reason _what_soever."

"Has she called you?" she asked, watching in fascination as Carlton began nibbling the chocolate off the bar, consuming it with obvious relish, before going for the sticky whatever-that-stuff-was filling. He licked his fingers and sighed wearily.

"Twice."

"And what did she say?"

"She said she's got to talk to me about something. Somebody – who will be mysteriously vanish shortly – informed her that I'm involved with Marlowe, but I don't think that's the whole story. She's after something. She's always after something. Some…tiny…portion of my soul, for instance." He looked around the station as if he had never seen it before and suddenly shot to his feet. "I'm hungry."

"You just ate a stack of four pancakes, three sausages, three eggs, a cruller, and half a Three Musket-…"

"Donuts. I see donuts." He paced away, heading toward the donut cart, which was being wheeled by. She knew her partner ate a lot when he was depressed (and never gained weight, the bastard), but coupled with his exhaustion-driven weird today, she suspected she might be in for an interesting afternoon. To say the least.

He was _not_ looking good at all. Frankly, Juliet was beginning to wonder if she should call Marlowe and tell her to take Carlton away for a few days, to a resort with no television, radio or phones. But that would mean trying to start a conversation with her partner's girlfriend, and that was still a little…_uncomfortable_. She wasn't sure how to talk to Marlowe at all. The woman had this air of _command_ about her that matched Carlton's beautifully, and possibly even surpassed his. From the way Gus had described their disastrous encounter with her at Carlton's house, she was apparently not about to put up with any kind of crap from _anybody_.

A too-direct line of questioning from Juliet could result in more _awkward_. And…had Carlton said anything to Marlowe about Whitestone…? She swallowed. She doubted it – her partner was too trustworthy for gossip, and _nothing_ had happened! Just that she kind of really sort of a little wished something had, and she knew that eventually she was going to have to explain a few things to Shawn. Something along the lines of 'I'm just so tired of all the childishness and narcissism' and 'Do you ever _stop_ eating?' and 'stay out of my bank account or I swear to God I will sic Lassiter on you'.

"Carlton, put the donuts down and step away," she said, trying to sound commanding.

He looked at her, surprised, and took another bite of his glazed donut. Defiant as always, even while he looked so…oh God, she thought, tears stinging her eyes. _Defeated_.

"Now, Carlton. Come on. It's not good for you to eat so much," she finally said, as firmly and as gently as she could. When _– not if, _**when** – they found this monster, she was going to make that man pay for what he was doing to those girls first, and then he was going to pay for doing this to Carlton. She had never seen him so frazzled, so exhausted, so utterly worn down. He no longer had that bold, confident stride. He didn't put his sunglasses on and bark 'Let's roll!' when it was time to go chase somebody down. When he stepped outside, he winced in the sunlight and she could almost _see_ his constant headache.

_He was losing weight_.

"I can eat anything I like and not gain an ounce," he told her flatly.

"And I really hate you for that, but you need to focus. We've got to meet with the task force leaders today, and the press will be there."

"Yeah." He frowned at the donuts now sitting on his desk, then looked at her, blue eyes faded. He was so exhausted. This entire case was consuming them all, in different ways. For Carlton, though, it was all on his head, in the end. He was the lead – the first one the press talked about in nightly coverage of the story. The first one the disgusting local rags mocked for having not solved the whole thing in a matter of a few minutes, as if they thought he had magic powers and could really fight city hall. They were back to calling him Detective Dipstick, which made Juliet reach for her gun every time she saw one of those vicious headlines. Didn't they know what this was doing to him? Didn't they know he was only human, and that he had been handed a Herculean task?

"Okay then. Let's go." There was none of his usual eagerness. Just a look of resignation. It broke Juliet's heart into a thousand pieces. "Can I take _one_ donut?"

* * *

><p>Shawn and Gus were seated in the row right behind Juliet and Carlton's chairs, and Whitestone was at Carlton's right arm, looking frazzled. He had been up most of the night, working on all the fine little details of his profile of the serial killer, and had admitted to Juliet that his theories were giving him nightmares.<p>

Milos Stanish, who Juliet still wanted to call Miles Standish, was reading over something and only glanced up when the mayor called order to the meeting. To her, he looked like a ferret. Whitestone had referred to him, in a moment when they had been left alone, as 'Weasel Lips'. His nicknames for the mayor and other task force leaders had been far less flattering.

Cameras flashed, and video started rolling. Juliet remembered Carlton's wry comment about the 'lovely hissing sound of news anchors' egos inflating' and smiled as she could almost hear that sound herself. Every major news outlet in the country was there, and she saw a reporter from Croatia sitting in the press pool.

"Detective Lassiter," Stanish finally said, once the room was quiet. "I have a question for you, if you don't mind."

Carlton nodded, and Juliet glanced at her partner, sadly noting the bags under his eyes, his pale skin, and the extra gray in his hair. He looked _awful_, and totally unprepared for the press and for _this_.

"A few nights ago, you were heard saying that you 'would rather find two bodies than none at all', if that would help you solve this case. Do you stand behind that comment?"

He looked bewildered. _Confused_. "I…"

"You want to find _more_ bodies, Detective?" Stanish said. He was leaning forward, cold blue eyes zeroing on her partner, her _friend_, who was falling apart right before her eyes. It was agonizing to watch, and she could do nothing. "_More_?"

"No…no, that's not what I meant. Not…"

"You said it, though, didn't you? You said you wanted to find more bodies!"

The deathly silence in the room chilled Juliet to the bone, and she wanted to reach out to Carlton, to try and support him, but he shook his head, eyes still on Stanish. She looked down and saw his hands shaking. Cameras were on him, and he was shaking, and she saw tears in his eyes then.

_Tears_.

"Listen, I don't think this is a reasonable line of questioning, Mr Stand…Stanish," Juliet started to interject, horrified for Carlton. Enraged for him. She was seriously glad no one was allowed to carry firearms into this room, because she wasn't sure she wouldn't have gone for her Glock right now. In her life, there were two people she didn't allow anyone to be cruel to: her mother and Carlton.

"You hush, you silly little girl!" Stanish snarled at her, and she was so startled that her mouth clapped shut. "Look at this man! Look!" He gestured to Carlton, who was struggled desperately to contain himself, but not succeeding at all. He had covered his eyes with his hand, and his shoulders were shaking as he withdrew into himself. Juliet glanced around the room and saw several reporters looking suitably uncomfortable and even sympathetic, but a few – namely from the 'newspaper' that enjoyed mocking him – were leaning forward, scribbling eagerly. "This man – this man who is supposed to be protecting the children of this city is _crying_! Crying!"

Shawn shot to his feet then, startling Juliet and everyone else in the room. "I don't see _you_ crying over those dead girls, you weasel-lipped little creep!"

"Who is this man?" Stanish growled, looking at the mayor, who looked extremely uncomfortable, too. Finally, Gus stood up and put his hand on Lassiter's shoulder. He leaned down and whispered something in his ear, and Carlton finally got to his feet. "Who is this ridiculous man?"

"Does it matter? You're hardly doing anything to find the killer. You're sitting on your bureaucratic ass, yelling at people who are doing their friggin' jobs!" Shawn snapped. Juliet and Whitestone got up, and let Gus lead the way, Carlton letting himself be led out of the room. Most of the cameras had been turned off, and the mayor was murmuring quietly to one of his lackeys. Shawn finally turned and followed them out, casting one last disgusted look at the task force leaders.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Marlowe?" Shawn said, glancing nervously at Juliet, who was sitting beside Carlton at his desk, watching him eat a donut. That seemed to be the only thing that kept him quiet now. For a few minutes, he had gone into the mens' room alone and left four extremely nervous people standing there, wondering what he might do. He had returned, confessed to having lost his lunch of donuts and Three Musketeers bar, and had sat down and rubbed his eyes, still shaking. "Uh, this is Shawn Spencer. Right. The…uh…twit. Right. Gay Lestat – hey, you remembered! Anyway, we were wondering if you could come down to the station and pick up Lassie…er…Lassiter. He's…having a problem. No, he's okay, in a way. Just…really, really stressed out and tired. Exhausted, actually. You did? Oh. Well, that's just fab. The bastards. Can you come get him? Good. Yeah. Thanks."<p>

He hung up and glanced at Lassiter, bewildered. He had never seen the detective fall apart like that. He was, in Spencer's privately held opinion, the strongest person he had ever known. Nothing beat Lassie down, but now the man looked broken. Frustrated, exhausted, drained. All he seemed able to do now was eat donuts and pretend he wasn't still shaking. Damn. Damn it all to _hell_.

"Hey, man, want something to drink? Like…some cold water?" Guster asked. Carlton nodded.

"Got any bourbon on you?"

"No bourbon," Juliet said gently. She touched Carlton's shoulder. "You need some rest, Carlton."

"Can't…"

"Yes you can," she said firmly. "Carlton, this is killing you. You need to go home, okay?"

"What if there's another body?" he asked her, his voice strangled. "They'll blame me even more…"

"If they do, there'll be several _more_ bodies! All wearing press passes!" she snapped.

* * *

><p>Marlowe arrived just ten minutes later, her expression strained, and she sat down in the chair beside Carlton, her hands enclosing his. "Sweetheart? Hey, look at me. We're going to go home, okay? Home."<p>

He lifted his head and studied her for several moments before he finally nodded and stood up. She glanced at Spencer, who got up and patted Carlton's shoulder. "Hey, dude, it's gonna be okay. You're gonna catch this bastard. It's inevitable. He may not think so, but he's…in for it. He's in for the Carlton Lassiter Extra Large Can of Whup-Ass, and it's comin' hard and fast."

* * *

><p>She drove slowly, with the radio playing, rather appropriately, the Beatles' <em>In My Life<em>, and he sat there in the passenger seat, eyes finally dry, expression blank as he stared out the window, taking nothing in. He was dull and silent and too weary to feel anything, from what she could see. When they got back to his condo, she had to speak rather sharply to him to get him to jerk back into reality and look at her. "We're home."

"Oh. Right."

"Carlton. Look at me."

He finally settled his gaze on her. "Yes?"

"It's going to be okay."

"No it's not. Not for a long time."

* * *

><p><em>Convalescent home<em>.

The very term gave Carlton the creeps, but Vick had pulled a few strings and suddenly he had two weeks to spend at a small but spa-like place in the hills, surrounded by trees and people very definitely not wearing white uniforms. In fact, the place was about as casual as a Grateful Dead concert, minus the drugs and crappy music. There were no drugs at all, actually, or shock therapy, unless specifically required (and shock therapy was not offered either way). Mainly, it was just lying around doing nothing, or playing cards with other fried-out people who had checked themselves out of the rat race for a while. He was under strict orders to not read newspapers, for one thing, and he had no television or phone.

It wasn't Bimini, but it was actually rather nice, he admitted. After a week he was pretty much calm and relaxed, even if he missed Marlowe horribly, but her parole officer had said that it was impossible for her to take any leave of absence from work unless it involved a death in the family. The only thing that still niggled at the back of his mind was that he had not called his mother back and that he felt just a _little_ guilty about that (which he supposed was the point). He figured he should call her back when he returned to the station, and take the brunt of whatever invective she had to throw at him, just as he had done from earliest childhood.

He couldn't deny that it was good to get away from everything. Marlowe was back at his condo, doing a little 'decorating' that he seriously hoped didn't involve too much of Africa. Her taste was a little different from his own, but still involved yellows and blues and grays…with some light greens thrown in, which he didn't mind. She had also asked him if he would mind if she repainted the master bedroom and did some touching up in the living room, and what he thought about repainting the third bedroom a 'softer color'.

Anyone else would have sent him into a full-blown panic or explosion of temper about having his routine changed. Instead, when she had shown him the color cards (Behr) from Home Depot, he had actually said that he liked them fairly well. 'Spring Sunshine' yellow had been far less obtrusive than he had expected, and 'Happy Blues' had seemed oxymoronic, but neither color had made him want to gag. Victoria had liked pinks and purples, to the point that he thought he was living inside a high-end carwash. Marlowe didn't like pink much at all, and she _hated_ orange.

Seven days in this place, with no news of the serial killer case, and he was getting a little bit cabin feverish. He was not required to talk to any therapists if he didn't want to, but he had _stunned_ himself two days ago by actually voluntarily going downstairs and sitting in a quiet room with lots of wicker furniture, elephant ear plants and a bust of Jung on the bookshelf and talked to a dry little man named Paulsen for two hours. He had talked about his divorce, about his career, about Marlowe, his mother, his father, his siblings, and even his batting average for the SPBD softball team (which was quite good). He had come out of that session feeling better somehow. Like a bit of weight had been taken off his shoulders, and now, he was eager to go back to the real world. On Saturday morning, he asked if he could leave, and they told him he could, and that he could come back whenever he needed to.

All things being equal, he suspected he might come back some day, and he wondered if the place had a honeymoon suite.

* * *

><p>"Detective Lassiter…you're back."<p>

Karen Vick looked up at the head detective, startled to see him standing there, in his customary sharp suit and tie (dark gray jacket and pants, red tie, crisp white shirt, black shoes). The bags were gone from under his eyes. His dark hair was grayer than before, but she was pleased to see the light back in those incredible blue eyes, and he wasn't pale and shaky any more.

"Yes. Well, I took the week. Two weeks was just too much. What have I missed?"

"Did you _rest_?" she asked.

"Yes. I slept two days straight, actually. With the help of some nice drugs, actually." He grinned at her and sat down. "I'm on a prescription now. Just so you know."

"Okay."

"It's mild, Karen. A prescription…to help me sleep. Cope with depression…" He shrugged. He handed her the papers, and she read them over.

"Right. Good." Vick folded her hands on her desk and stared at him. "Are you sure you're all right, Carlton?"

"I'm okay. Really. What have I missed?" he repeated.

"We found another body," she said sadly. "Seventeen year old girl, originally from Split, Croatia. She and her family came to Santa Barbara two months ago. Raped, stabbed to death. Eyes gouged out." She shuddered and handed him the report. "Not news you wanted to hear, I'm sure."

"No." He opened the file and she watched him read it over. "Found less than a mile from the Mills Crossing Mall."

"Yes." She took a deep breath. "Stanish is now of the opinion that a cop might be the killer."

"_A cop_?"

"Yes."

"Jesus…" He looked up at her, and his astonishment faded to dismay. "No. You have to be kidding."

"He says that a cop would certainly know how to kill so many people and not be caught, and that a cop would have other cops covering for him."

"Well, that's charming, isn't it?" he said, but he didn't sound weary. In fact, he sounded ticked off, which was the Cartlon Lassiter that Karen Vick knew and understood best.

"Let me ask you this, Carlton – if you knew they were going to come get you tomorrow, would you do anything differently?"

"Of course not," he shook his head.

"Then get to work."

* * *

><p>He was so glad to be home. Even if he didn't actually get there until almost midnight. The light was on in the kitchen, and he wasn't surprised to find Marlowe stirring something delicious-smelling in a pot. "What's that?" he asked her, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder.<p>

"Chicken and dumplings."

"Yum."

"I was hoping you'd like that. It's good-old fashioned Southern comfort food. For someone who needs a bit of comfort." He let her go so she could get him a bowl – there was no point in arguing with her, at this point, about how she didn't have to _do_ things for him, because she liked to do things for him – and ladle out a good portion of the thick, creamy soup for him. She then insisted on pouring him a glass of milk – milk! – and made him sit down at the table.

"You look tired," she finally said, as he tucked into his meal. "Another victim?"

"Yes. We worked the victim's info, talked with her parents, her friends. I never even glanced at a donut today."

She smiled, nodded, and sat down beside him at the table, watching him eat.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I already did. About four hours ago."

"Then you can go to bed."

"I like to sit here with you." She crossed her knees and dropped her chin into the heel of her palm, elbow on the table, watching him as he consumed the warm meal. Quiet conversation made his meal even better, and when he was finished (after insisting he wash his own dishes, over her protests), they settled on the couch, Marlowe snuggling against his chest and listening for a while to his heartbeat.

"I'm so glad you got some time off," she said softly. "I was worried about you." She looked up at him. "I still worry."

"I was getting a little worried, too," he admitted. "Worried and anxious and…well, a bit _emotional_."

"And that horrible little man doing that to you. Even trying to accuse you of not caring about those girls."

"I'm still trying to work out what to do. How to catch the killer…there has to be a strategy. I call the plays in this damned mess and now that little twerp is trying to take over. _He_ wants to run the whole operation."

She pondered a moment. "But if you and Juliet solve the case, it will reflect…_happily_ on him, right, if he lets you keep running things. He's just a bureaucrat. What would he know about running a murder investigation?"

"Almost as he much as he would know about holding down a steady job, which is why he went into politics, I suspect." He snickered and turned the TV on. For a while, they just sat, watching her DVR'd episode of _Jeopardy!_, with both them getting most of the questions right. It was only after he dozed off during final Jeopardy that she nudged him awake and suggested they head off to bed. Just as his head hit the pillow, the phone started ringing. Grimacing, and bracing himself, he answered. The voice was not Woody's, however: it was his mother.

"Carlton McTiernan Lassiter, why haven't you called me back?"

He sat up straight, something he still did even now, years after having been _tied_ into his chair while eating and reading, to make his back ramrod straight. "I forgot how to operate a phone."

"Don't you sass me, young man!"

_Young man_? He was forty-three. He had arthritis in his shoulder and gray hair and wrinkles and corn was becoming his enemy.

"What is it, Mother?" he finally asked, glancing at Marlowe, who had changed into her soft cotton cloud-pattern pajamas and was climbing into bed. She raised one eyebrow.

"Your father died."

"Oh. Well, good night, then…"

"I want you to attend to all the required _business_. I have his ashes and I want you to spread them someplace appropriate."

"Well, as he's likely already in hell, I don't know how I'd get his ashes down there, too…" He felt a cement block land on his shoulder. The arthritic one. Another weight. Another cause of stress.

"You will come here tomorrow, collect the ashes and talk to the lawyers, then take the ashes away."

"I have work to do, Mother."

"I saw that. I saw you fall apart last week during that press conference!"

"And it's so nice to know I have my mother's undying support and sympathy. I'll come by tomorrow and collect the ashes. Goodbye." He hung up before she could squawk any more and waited a moment for the phone to ring again. It didn't, however, and he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "My father died. I guess it was last week some time."

"Oh." Marlowe looked at him cautiously, not sure how to behave. He didn't look grief-stricken or angry or really, anything. Maybe just resigned.

"Don't get overly concerned there. I'm not. The son of a bitch took off when I was twelve. I haven't seen him since. And now he's dead."

"I'm sorry," she finally said, settling on something somewhat appropriate.

He shrugged. He thought about his father – same dark hair, same blue eyes, same straight spine, same crack shot. Full head of hair, typical of the Lassiter men, with full Irish hairline (he remembered Lauren's documentary, with Henry saying that Shawn would eventually go bald, and that _still_ made him laugh). Seamus Muscum Lassiter had possessed charm, though. Tons of it, which Carlton had not inherited at all. His younger brother had charm (and the same name) and his sisters had enough fair-skinned, red-headed beauty to launch ships to all directions, but Carlton…no he had just gotten his father's eyes and hair and his mother's grumpy temper and single-minded determination.

"Don't apologize. Angina killed him, not you."

She smiled softly and kissed him before resting her head on his chest. "I'm still sorry, Carlton," she said. "He missed out on knowing you."

"Eh…"

She gave his chest a gentle slap. "What did we talk about? You and your low self-esteem…enough of that! He missed out. His loss."

He smiled at her. He had to admit, it was nice to have at least one person on his side, at all times, no matter what. He kissed her temple, turned off the light, and stretched out, Marlowe curled against his side. She was soon sound asleep, head on his chest, and he stared up at the ceiling until he fell asleep. He dreamed about ashes in a cigarette tray and Ireland and his father telling him he would pick him up from school at three o'clock on Thursday.

He had never come.

TBC


	11. The Wearin' O' The Green

An funereal interlude, inspired somewhat by Johnny Cash's haunting version of _Danny Boy_, an episode of _Frasier_, and Bugs Bunny.

No, really.

What?

* * *

><p>Carlton looked down again at the coffee can, inside of which were the mortal remains of his father.<p>

It was like some kind of ghoulish maraca.

He had arrived at the crematorium at nine in the morning, running a full hour late, all due to a flat tire on the freeway, an obnoxious little man with a big cigar, and his mother calling him at six in the morning (interrupting 'comfort sex', as Marlowe had called it) with very, very specific instructions on exactly where to go, what to say, what to wear, and how to comb his freaking _hair_. All of that had accumulated his lateness from only five minutes to twenty minutes to thirty minutes and finally, when he had limped wearily into the funeral director's office, an hour. He knew his mother would hear about it and would call and he would be in for an hour's worth of berating.

The funeral director looked like Lurch, from _The Addams Family_, and was named Pfeiffer, with the 'P' not being silent. It was thundering outside, and flashes of lightning had lit up the little room where he had stood, staring at the container holding his father's remains. One loud clap of thunder, a flash of light and it had been all he could do to not try and climb Lurch, Bugs Bunny-style, and call Marlowe to beg her to forget about parole violations and high-tail it up here _now_, because some more comfort sex would definitely come in handy.

A flat tire, a near-nervous breakdown, a scary-looking funeral director and seven hundred dollars out of his bank account to pay for the cremation (which his mother had flatly refused to pony up for). All to collect a coffee can.

Maxwell House. How appropriate. His father had always preferred Maxwell House. He had been disdainful of Folger's, from what Carlton could recall, calling it a 'damned English coffee product', though Carlton wasn't sure if Folger was in fact an English name, and didn't most coffee come from Africa?

Lassiter was actually a distantly _English_ name, tracing back to Leicestershire, which was not famous for its sauce (like Worcestershire) but was well known for its sheep. Further back into the mists of time, it was Norman and further back, the Lassiter forebears had been living in trees and throwing rocks at Roman garrisons marching through Gaul.

They had, from the start, been rebellious, cantankerous and high-strung, with a tendency toward high metabolism, dark hair, blue eyes and remarkable fighting skills. From the research one of his maiden aunts had done, they had started out somewhere in Chester, England and from there had gone to Ireland, spent several generations in Connemara, fighting with themselves, neighbors and probably even sheep, before eventually becoming thieves, smugglers, and pirates (with a foray into Scotland to fight against Edward I with William Wallace, because they enjoyed killing Englishmen) while marrying (if forced to) O'Connells, O'Learys, Dunnes, O'Sheas, McTiernans, Feahys, McKewens, Daughterys and O'Riordans until the English was thoroughly bred _out_. In 1735, a thin, starving, dirt-poor Seamus Lassiter had boarded a cattle ship from Cill Chiaráinand landed in North Carolina, and the rest was history. His grandsons had fought against the Englishmen they despised so much in the Revolutionary War, then went back to Tennessee to continue making moonshine. A streak of larceny still ran strong through his family. He had in fact arrested three cousins in the past five years.

Something in the can kept rattling, and he wondered if it was a tooth. Maybe a piece of jewelry. His mother, obviously, would have done her best Alice Perrers and would have snatched up whatever had been left on the body when it had arrived at LAX from Boston. She probably would have even snatched up any gold teeth as well.

He was now on his way to the local airport, to pick up his brother Seamus, who was due to arrive from several connecting flights from Buenos Aires. His sister Colleen and her brood of lanky, good-looking offspring would already be at the house, all of them wishing they were back in Calabasas. Lauren and Raul would be there with Peter, probably already feeling worn down by Mother. Althea would be trying to keep everyone from killing each other, because she was a peacemaker by nature. Other Lassiters would be wandering around, giving each other cold looks and dreading his arrival.

He flashed his badge at the security guard at the gate and rolled through, the coffee can rattling as he went over the speed bump, and he glared at his father's remains. "Shut up already. As if you've had anything to say for the past thirty years." He turned on the radio and was surprised to hear Johnny Cash singing _Danny Boy_. "There. That ought to keep you quiet."

He had obeyed his mother's command, however, and was wearing a green tie.

* * *

><p>"Carlton! Carlton!"<p>

He looked up from a _People_ magazine article about Sarah Jessica Parker (and wondering how a woman that looked so much like a horse could have achieved such fame and shampoo commercials) and sighed. His brother was coming up the ramp, grinning from ear to ear. The younger man – by five years – dropped his bags and started jumping up and down. "I got my parole! I got my parole!"

Seamus Lassiter had dark hair that would probably never go gray (what did he have to worry about?), blue eyes that never turned black with rage (he never got angry about anything), and a much more relaxed posture (no sprigs of holly under his chin during meals, because Mother had adored him). In fact, he slouched. His mouth never twisted into a grimace of disgust or disdain, and he never did or said anything to indicate even the mildest degree of aggression. He was lazy, fun-loving, irreverent and charming. He was, thus, Carlton's total opposite. Aside from the Lassiter hairline, an inability to gain weight and abnormally strong biceps, the two brothers had nothing in common. Seamus had also not been plagued with dyslexia, a stammer (brought on by nuns tying his left hand behind his back and already enough stress to kill any insurance salesman) and a badly twisted knee that had gone untreated for three days because Mother had told him to shake it off. Seamus had been blessed with all the (very few) best traits of the Lassiter family.

Having failed to make Carlton even stand up, Seamus sighed and picked up his bags, strolling over and flopping down in the seat beside his big brother. "Well, howdy-do!"

"Seamus." Carlton put the magazine down. "Your flight was uneventful?"

"Well, aside from the shifty-eyed Mediterranean-lookin' fellow with the box cutter and the nun transporting cocaine, it was very smooth. How've ya been?"

"Fine." He stood up, grabbing one of his brother's bags, and started toward the gates.

"Still a cop?" Seamus paced alongside him, matching his long-legged stride fairly easily, staggering a little under the weight of his own bag.

"Yep."

"Still divorced?"

"Yep."

"Still got that tattoo?"

"Yep."

"Can I see it?"

"Nope." Stepping outside into the sunlight, he put on his shades and started toward his Fusion, not caring if Seamus kept up or not.

* * *

><p>Colleen Lassiter Gray straightened her skirt and stood up, looking at her husband Daniel and their four tall, lanky sons before turning her attention to the front door. Any moment, and Carlton and Seamus would be coming in, and she needed to be prepared. Carlton was fairly easy to get along with, at least to her, but Seamus could cause trouble. He <em>loved<em> to cause trouble, and usually for Carlton.

Lauren, Raul and Peter were seated on the couch, with Raul drinking strong black coffee and looking wary. Mother was upstairs, having been _begged_ to go up and just wait by Althea, who was seated at the end of the sofa, wringing her hands. She had spent all morning making lunch – turkey and dressing – and was extremely nervous. Everybody was on edge. This was the first time the family had actually gathered since Lauren's wedding and that had ended with the police needing to be called and a write-up in the local paper…

Finally, the door opened and in bounced Seamus, grinning from ear to ear, having apparently forgotten he was home to put the final touches on his father's death. Carlton came in behind him, his gait more measured, his expression wary. Colleen went to her eldest brother first, and hugged him warmly, surprised when he actually hugged her back. She looked at him for a moment, noting that he didn't look as tired as she had expected. In fact, he looked…healthy?

"How are you?" he asked her.

"I'm okay."

"Where's Mother?"

"Upstairs. Being impossible. She flounced up there after Lauren said something 'inappropriate'. I think it was something along the lines of 'Hello, Mother, how are you?'"

Althea came over and pulled Carlton into a suffocating hug, which he accepted with far better grace than Colleen would ever have expected. Lauren also made her way over, grimly accepting Seamus's effusive greeting before making her way to the eldest of her brothers. She was just as surprised when Carlton smiled at her. "Hey, Lulu."

"What…are you okay?" she asked him, surprised by his friendliness.

"Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you're…different."

"Life isn't kicking me in the teeth so much lately," he shrugged. "Seamus, let go of Colleen before you kill her," he said sharply, barely even turning his head but knowing his younger brother was hugging the poor woman far too tightly.

"Have you…met somebody?" Lauren asked, raising one auburn eyebrow.

"Uh…is that sage I smell, Althea?"

"Yes. Full turkey dinner. I hope you're hungry!"

Lauren looked amused.

"Famished, actually. Haven't eaten since I collected…this." He held up the Maxwell House coffee can and waggled it. It rattled cheerfully. "Who wants to try and get this to help keep the beat for the opening bit to 'Low Rider'?"

* * *

><p>A memorial service wasn't supposed to involve gunplay, but Carlton nonetheless was on the alert. Lassiters never did have a knack for really getting along very well. The room was full of tall, lean, touchy men with dark hair and numerous fair-skinned, red-headed beauties, all of varying ages and genealogical connections. It was like a photograph one would take of 'This Is What Irish People <em>Ought<em> to Look Like', except that an hour ago Uncle Padraic (Pat) had popped open a beer can during the priest's brief homily and Aunt Cairistiona (Carrie) had uttered a curse word not generally heard or expected during a Catholic service. The Lassiters were not what Irish people were supposed to _behave_ like. Needless to say, he was not looking forward to the wake.

No, he thought grimly, seated on the front row of the chapel, clenching and unclenching the paper in his hand, to the point that some of the words were now smudged and almost illegible. No, the Lassiters never did behave quite like Irishmen. There was very little joviality, almost no good cheer, zero élan, and a definite deficiency of warmth. Only Seamus had inherited any of their father's charm, and he was sitting at the end of the row, looking bored and a little sleepy.

Lunch had been good. Althea had cornered him briefly and quizzed him on how things were going in his life, and he had felt comfortable enough with her to tell that he was finally in a good relationship. Althea had been delighted and then had asked him if he was going to marry Marlowe, which he had answered with an 'I don't know yet' gesture that she had answered with a grin. "Oh, boy, you're a goner!"

He could have used Marlowe's encouragement right now. She had told him to stay calm and leave his gun at home. He had left the gun at home, but he wasn't sure if he could find his _calm_ now.

"…now Seamus Lassiter's eldest son Carlton has a few words…" Father Francis said, smiling warmly and nodding to Carlton.

Carlton stood, buttoned his jacket and straightened his tie before making his way up to the podium. The wiggling herd of Lassiter and half-Lassiter children (they reminded him of rabbits, for some reason) became still, either of their volition or due to some major shushage from their parents. The older herd of turtles (the elder Lassiters) stared stonily at him. He swallowed and let fly.

"My father was, apparently, a remarkable man."

Wow. An echo. He looked around the chapel, swallowing.

"He was born on September the seventh, nineteen-forty-four, just as World War Two was winding down on all the carnage. He was the elder son of Sean and Emily Lassiter, of Ervine, California. He is survived by two sons, Carlton – that would be me – and Seamus the fourth, who is currently asleep, and two daughters, Colleen Gray and Lauren Maldonado, and five grandsons. He is also survived by his brother Padraic and two sisters, Cairistiona and Sionnan, and numerous nieces and nephews, grandnieces and nephews, and great-nieces and nephews, the number of which I cannot remember right now because they all run so fast. He was married to Marlena McLeod on November the tenth, nineteen-sixty-eight, and they became the parents of the healthiest premature baby ever born in the state of California, just four months later. That baby weighed nine pounds, four ounces and is currently head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department and is still divorced but is currently…uh…involved."

He glanced down and saw Lauren cover her mouth to hide her giggle.

"Shortly after the birth of his youngest child, Seamus Lassiter the third left his family and moved to Boston, where he apparently married again, thus becoming a bigamist."

Father Francis cleared his throat. No one had told him about _that_.

"He and his second wife, a woman named Starflower, who was twenty-two and claimed to frequently see music notes floating up to the ceiling whenever she listened to the Beatles White Album, fortunately never had children that they could screw up. Starflower Lassiter is, last we knew, on Mars. Or maybe Venus. Either way, Seamus Lassiter left Starflower in late nineteen-seventy-eight and married a third time, to a woman named Agnes Frobisher, who was clearly just glad to get a different last name, albeit illegally, as he was still married to both Marlena Lassiter and Starflower Lassiter. They also never had any children."

Raul guffawed and went into a coughing spasm. Lauren handed her husband a handkerchief.

"Seamus left Agnes some time during the summer of nineteen-eighty-three and went to Ireland, where he picked up an Irish accent and became a smuggler of French wines and a horse trader, the latter being the only semi-honest enterprise into which he ever entered. He ran this operation successfully, married twice more to women whose names are not verifiable, and moved to the village of…" He peered down at the name of the Welsh village. "Well, it's spelled 'Y-s-t-r-a-d-g-y-n-l-a-i-s', pronunciation: 'Huh?' - until nineteen-ninety, and in the meantime he married two more women, and then he returned to the United States and settled again in Boston, unbeknownst to Agnes Frobisher Lassiter, who might still be quite eager to have a discussion with him about that whole 'commitment' thing. He remained in Boston for the remainder of his life, skirting the law with great deftness and vigor and making no effort to contact his first wife and children in California. We are not aware of any further children he may have had with his numerous wives, and if they exist, they are not aware of us."

Colleen was rubbing her forehead. Marlena Lassiter was seated beside Althea, fuming. Althea was trying to keep herself contained, being uncertain if she should laugh or cry. Laughter had a definite edge. Carlton had always been her favorite among Marlena's children, mainly because he was exactly who and what he said he was, no fannying about, with no effort whatsoever at concealing the truth, however painful and often tactless it might be. It was, frankly, a wonder he hadn't started a homily on the importance of taking care of your heart, the lack thereof being what had finally killed Seamus Lassiter III.

"I suppose it's good to try and speak well of the dead. To find something good to say about them. I can't think of anything, right now, that was particularly good about him. He taught me how to shoot straight, I suppose, and he taught me how _not_ to behave toward my family – as in, don't walk out on them. Oh, and he gave me blue eyes, which may or may not be a blessing, depending on your point of view. His kids are all okay, anyway. I'm doing better. His daughters turned out quite well and are happily married to fairly decent guys, but his second son is still asleep and lives in Buenos Aires, taking photographs of models, some of whom are occasionally nude or semi-nude. Me, I am still sometimes required to burst into rooms full of fat, naked old men. Such is the unfairness of life." He folded his paper and stepped down and sat back down beside Lauren, the entire chapel settling once again into stiff silence.

* * *

><p>The wake went a little better than Carlton had expected.<p>

Corned beef, of course, was featured on the buffet. Along with various other Irish fare that had failed to place Ireland on anybody's list of places to get a good meal (it was, however, a wonderful place to go to lose weight, since from what Carlton could recall of his visit to the British Isles after graduating from high school, all British food was based on a dare). There was plenty of Guinness, of course, and on the wall were photographs of two racehorses his father had 'owned' (in the sense of having some smart ownership part thereof), one having won a few semi-major races at The Curragh. A band was playing Irish music, and everybody was singing gloomy Irish songs about dead nuns, unsuccessful highwaymen, drowned smugglers, murdered lovers and all those things that made starving to death in Western Ireland so bloody cheery.

Marlena was holding forth at the immediate family's table, Althea seated beside her. Her inability to edit her language while under the influence meant that the children had been scattered to other tables in the pub. Carlton had sat at the end of the table, next to Daniel, who was as quiet and reserved as himself and thus little conversation was deemed necessary beyond polite honorifics. Carlton eschewed the Guinness, knowing he would have to drive home tonight, and did his best to avoid his mother's verbal barrage. That was not to be, however. She finally spotted him and narrowed her eyes.

"Carlton! Why are you down there?"

_To avoid the verbal abuse?_

"Uh…the placecard put me here," he finally said, taking a sip of his Coke.

Marlena glared at her eldest son. She was a hard-looking woman who had lived a tough-as-nails life. Her tales of harrowing childhood poverty, abandonment by her father at age nine, wearing potato sack dresses to school, 'early' marriage (due to having been knocked up) to an unreliable man, and of how grateful her children should be to her for working two jobs to make ends meet, had left all her children wary of her all-too-fast open hand and volatile temper. She had never been warm or sympathetic toward any of her offspring, save possibly Seamus.

"You've not had one word of sympathy for me, your own mother!"

Carlton couldn't think of anything sympathetic to say. He finally just stood up, went over to give his sisters hugs, briefly tousled his nephews' hair, hoping they would have vaguely pleasant memories of their uncle Carlton, and executed a polite, even somewhat graceful bow to his mother and Althea before turning on his heel and leaving the pub. There was no point in staying. The coffee can was in his car and he had a long drive back home.

* * *

><p>He was reluctant to get anybody else involved. Even Marlowe, who surely wouldn't want to stand on a cliff overlooking the sea and pour ashes down into the white water below, seemed best left back at his condo, putting the finishing touches on the guest bedroom walls while singing <em>Put Yourself in My Place<em>.

He pondered calling O'Hara, but opted against it just before he hit 'call' on his cell phone. She might bring Spencer along, who would likely produce a little hand vacuum and suck up his father's remains and take them back to his office as 'souvenir'. Finally, when he got to the spot, he called Colleen, Lauren and tracked down Seamus (who had gone barhopping after the wake) and the four offspring of Seamus Muscum Lassiter III stood at the cliff's edge, looking down at the water. They each held four leaf clovers in their hands, all found by Colleen's boys back at the house.

"It's getting late," he finally said, nodding toward the sun, which was melting into the cold spring sea.

"Yeah. Can you open it?" Lauren asked. Carlton removed the lid, caught a vague whiff of coffee and his father's ever-present Pall Malls, and waited for the wind to die down – he didn't wish to be 'in touch' with his father again. Finally, when it was still enough, he shook the can a little and finally found what was making the rattling sound – a tiny fragment of bone. Wincing, he removed it and held it in his hand a moment before dropping it into his pocket.

"Carly," Lauren said, resting her head against his arm. "Was there anything good to say about Da? I don't remember him at all."

"He cut a fine figure on a horse," Carlton finally nodded. "He knew all the words to _Danny Boy_. He picked Shergar to win the Irish Derby and told me he wept like a Protestant when the IRA murdered him. He spoke fluent Gaelic, and I'm glad he left."

"Glad?" Colleen looked surprised.

"Can you imagine how much worse we'd all be if he had _stayed_?"

Seamus nodded. "Yeah. But I hear you have a fine blonde lass back home now, Carlton. Could there be a _happy_ lilt to yer accent there now, laddie?"

"I'll be as happy as I want to be, and then some, thank you. And I've got to track down, what was it, four more wives?" Carlton said, almost laughing. "Tell them the news. I did contact Starflower."

"Oh, God, talk about your moonbats!" Colleen giggled.

"Dingbat, more like. She teaches jazzercise to housewives in Denver," Carlton informed her, and his sister laughed heartily. "She got the marriage annulled, once the drugs wore off, and married an accountant. An _accountant_. The others…I found Agnes this morning and talked to her on the phone, right at the service. She just laughed and hung up. The other four, in Ireland and Wales…they've still got me beat. Maybe Interpol will help. The last thing I want is for Mom to do the searching. For all we know, she'd put out contracts on them all."

Carlton shook the ashes in the can, and finally turned it upside down, watching the grayish stuff float down toward the sea.

"I hate the sea," Colleen said softly, shuddering a little as the waves crashed and roared below.

"So do I," Seamus said. "I never go to the beach. Not even to chase the models."

"I'm shocked to hear that," Carlton said. "I hate the sea, too. Hate the boiling of it, and…" He cleared his throat. Ah hell, he was Irish. He had a line or two of poetry in his DNA. "I hate its thunders and rages." Lauren nodded in agreement, still holding on to her oldest, favorite, brother's arm. He and his brother exchanged brief looks. They had never been enemies. They had just never been able to be friends, and they knew they never could be. They were, however, brothers, and Seamus came around Lauren and hugged Carlton tightly. Colleen and Lauren joined them, and Seamus started singing – which alarmed the seagulls and left a pair of tourists from Kinosha, Wisconsin somewhat bewildered – and the others joined in, poking each other when they flubbed the words, and remembering what it meant to be brothers and sisters, knowing they had come out all right in the end, in spite of it all.

_O Paddy dear, and did ye hear the news that's goin' round?_

_The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground!_

_No more Saint Patrick's Day we'll keep, his color can't be seen_

_For there's a cruel law ag'in the Wearin' o' the Green."_

_I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand_

_And he said, "How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?"_

_"She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen_

_For they're hanging men and women there for the Wearin' o' the Green."_

_"So if the color we must wear be England's cruel red_

_Let it remind us of the blood that Irishmen have shed_

_And pull the shamrock from your hat, and throw it on the sod_

_But never fear, 'twill take root there, though underfoot 'tis trod._

_When laws can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow_

_And when the leaves in summer-time their color dare not show_

_Then I will change the color too I wear in my caubeen_

_But till that day, please God, I'll stick to the Wearin' o' the Green._

As one, they threw their four-leafed clovers to the wind before taking off for their cars, shivering in the wind, all knowing they wouldn't see each other again for a while. Lauren had her husband and son to take care of. Colleen had four boys to train to be men and third grade math tests to grade. Seamus had models to photograph. Carlton had a murderer to catch.

They would never be too far away from each other.

TBC

(Hopefully, the real action will start up again soon and we've got some major surprises in store for Lassiter, and I've finally got a good conclusion in my head for this whole thingamabob)


	12. Tact

"Hey, Lassie, you're back to the old grind!"

Carlton only glanced up at Spencer and resumed reading through the case file. He had only taken yesterday off, for his father's memorial service, and had come straight home from the cliffside. He and Marlowe had eaten takeout Chinese and watched _Wives & Daughters_ on DVD. He had actually enjoyed the British costume drama, and added Roger Hamley's marriage proposal to his list of possible scenarios of _how_ he might ask Marlowe such a question. The idea that he was thinking of asking her that question left him quaking with terror and high as a kite.

After a bit of sleepy but very friendly wrestling in bed, Marlowe had konked out and he had laid on his back until the sky outside started lightening. His orderly mind went through innumerable strategies on how to set the trap for the killer of all those innocent girls, and by dawn one idea in particular had taken shape and didn't seem too outlandish. _Know your enemy_, he thought. Think the way he thinks, go where he goes, do what he does, see what he sees. What is his comfort zone? Where does he feel safe? _Where does he hunt_?

By the time he got to the station, he was more than halfway sure that the strategy could work. When Spencer came up and started yammering at him, he was almost one-hundred percent sure, and knew what tack he wanted to take now. It would require some discussion, a bit of persuading, and possibly – hopefully – putting an end to this whole horrific mess. He slapped the folder closed and stood up, focusing on the task at hand and while he wasn't actually trying to be rude to Spencer, he had no time for pleasantries now.

"Somebody told me your dad died…" Shawn said, blocking Carlton's path as he made his way toward Vick's office. The taller man was a lot more agile than Spencer really expected though – Carlton dodged him like a seasoned cow pony and headed toward the chief's door. Spencer followed him nonetheless, eager to know what had put that intent expression on Carlton's face.

Two quick knocks were answered with a distracted "Come in" and Carlton went in, banging the door shut in Spencer's face.

"…and I figured I should express my sympathies…" Spencer muttered, knowing he wasn't going to get in there without possibly getting shot. Or at least shot _at_. "So…um…I hope the wake was fun."

"What is it?" Karen asked, sitting back in her chair.

"We have a total of sixteen dead girls now, Karen. _Sixteen_. It's time to take some real action, instead of sitting around on our asses, swatting at flies. So I have an idea. A means of either proving our first suspect _is_ the killer or completely eliminating him, which would please the mayor."

She unfolded her hands and raised an eyebrow. "And that idea would be…?"

"Santa Barbara has, what, nine malls and outlet centers, right?"

"Yes…"

"The killer has not operated outside this county, to our knowledge. My own theory is that he knows that if he does, he doesn't get protection from _certain_ people."

He caught her look, and returned the look with one that indicated righteous determination before continuing.

"We've found victims near all nine of the malls in this county. What I'm thinking is that we should have a strong police presence at seven of those malls, and have plainclothes cops at the other two." He unfolded a map of Santa Barbara County and pointed the eraser of his pencil at the two malls in question: Carriage Crossing and Oceanfront. "Here and here."

"Carlton…" She looked at the map, and the bold circles he had made around the two malls, both fairly far away from the Little Zagreb region of the city. "I have to admit, it's a good idea." She smoothed the map on the table and studied it carefully.

He nodded, looking rather pleased. "I know. It is a good idea. He won't feel safe to hunt at seven places, even if they're closer to Little Zagreb, but he will at two. He's got to slip up sooner or later."

"We can only hope so," she said, glancing out her window to his board, where photos of all sixteen girls were displayed. Not just crime scene photos, but photos of the girls when they had been alive, as a reminder to every cop in the station of just _who_ they were all fighting for. She nodded to Carlton. "Get to work, Detective."

* * *

><p>Juliet watched her partner, amazed to see how relaxed he was. He had virtually every uniformed officer in Santa Barbara standing around the station, jammed into alcoves, shoved against the copy machine and the coffee maker, and almost hanging from the light fixtures. They were all eager to take part in this operation, and had come to the station in droves, many even on their day off. Carlton wasn't preening or straightening his tie or checking his hair. Instead, he was leaning back against his desk, arms crossed, issuing orders like General freaking Patton, while not giving a damn how he looked or if anybody liked him – in situations like this, his social awkwardness was actually in his favor. She caught him looking at the photographs of those sixteen innocent girls, and he cleared his throat.<p>

"Every mall and outlet center in Santa Barbara County, except two, will have a uniformed police presence, around the clock, seven days a week," he told the officers. "At these malls, you will not be in the least bit subtle or discreet. You will make your presence known to everyone there. Any time you see a man accost a young woman, under _any_ circumstances, you will question him…get his name, his ID, and ask him his business with her. If he gripes, he can take it up with me. Your job is to protect and serve, right?"

The uniformed officers nodded as one, all glancing at the photographs on the board.

"You will not be polite, you will not be nice, you will not be subtle or tactful. You will not be anything other than intrusive and extremely irritating. We want this monster to see you, and know you're there. You will be placed at every entrance to every large department store in that mall, and at all the outside entrances as well, and you will take hourly rounds through those malls. Am I understood?"

Shawn sidled up next to Juliet and nudged her. "What's this about?"

"It's Carlton catching a monster," Juliet said softly. "He's finally found his can of whup-ass."

"As for the two other malls, I will need round-the-clock plainclothes presence there, too. I need the best of the best for this job, because you will have to be subtle, but the same rule applies: anyone who approaches a young woman will also have to be stopped and questioned." He folded his arms across his chest, and Juliet couldn't keep from grinning. "Are any of you going to allow any more young girls to be murdered?"

"No, sir," was the collective answer. Juliet heard more than a few of them mutter "Hell, no" under their breath before they began signing up for the operation. Vick had already given it a name: Operation Tact, which she thought sounded excellent.

"Good," Carlton nodded, straightening and looking over a detective's shoulder at Juliet. "Then let's catch this bastard. Think of those girls as your own daughters. What do you to do a bastard who hurts your daughter?"

"We're cops, so we can't kill him ourselves. So we catch him, convict him and hope to God he gets the gas chamber," one of the officers said gruffly, staring at the photographs. "And damn right we'll do it, sir."

* * *

><p>The next week and a half was fairly uneventful. No further bodies were found. Uniformed police officers haunted seven of Santa Barbara's shopping centers and saw nothing of note happening. Only a few men were even questioned, and all proved innocent of any wrongdoing. The plainclothes police at the two other malls also noted nothing unusual. When Shawn asked if he could be part of the operation, Carlton agreed with a vague shrug of the shoulders, stating blandly that another two sets of eyes couldn't hurt. They were, however, ordered to report anything to the plainclothes cops and to <em>not<em> engage any suspects themselves or he would kick their asses from Santa Barbara to Miami.

The days that passed were tense. Carlton had trouble sleeping, and Marlowe gave up on trying to make him do just that, so they would sit up until the wee hours, playing cards, talking, watching movies. She tried to distract him from his worry, from his doubts, and in most cases ended up just as worried, albeit never in doubt about him. She tried to persuade him to take the weekend off, but he told her he couldn't – he was going to spend Friday evening at the Oceanfront mall. She told him she understood and decided it would be best to stay at her own house and attend a Renaissance fair with her roommates. Carlton couldn't help feeling a standard-sized frisson of fear when she left. What if she was leaving for good? Not even her assurances that she would see him Monday and that she knew he would catch the killer made that knot leave his stomach. In a matter of just six days, he had lost ten pounds he couldn't spare and Juliet noted a haunted, haggard look in his eyes.

* * *

><p>Friday night, Shawn and Gus sat near the Orange Julius at the Oceanfront mall, watching the crowds and getting seriously bored. Still, they were both determined to stay <em>alert<em>, and neither was doing much besides eating and watching every person that went by. Jokes had been deemed inappropriate, and every time they saw a man with a young girl they got on their cell phones and put in an alert to the plainclothes cops nearby and told them where the couple were headed and to keep an eye on them.

Still, nothing much was happening. All the men with young girls were the fathers, brothers, friends or boyfriends of the girls.

"Lassie's idea is pretty good," Shawn admitted, in spite of the lack of leads it had brought up so far.

"Yeah," Gus nodded.

"I think it'll flush this whackjob out," he nodded. "It has to. I mean…seriously, sixteen dead girls. _Sixteen_." He felt sick to this stomach to even think about it. Yin and Yang had been horrifying in their own aspect, but this guy…he had those two beat by a mile.

Guster frowned as he saw a man with a leather bag walk by. He straightened in his seat – it was the guy Lassiter had interrogated only a few months ago. He nudged Shawn, who sat up straight and watched him walk by. Both young men got up and began trailing him, Shawn taking in smudges of dirt on the knees of his pants and his shoes. In spite of that, they weren't allowed to go near him. Nonetheless, they kept following him, across the length of the mall and into Sears, where the man looked at some power tools and riding lawnmowers before heading out into the parking lot. They stood inside the doors, watching as he got into his car and drove away.

"What was his name again?" Gus asked.

"It sounded like Seevitovich…?" Shawn nodded. "C'mon, we gotta go tell one of the cops on duty."

* * *

><p>"He didn't actually speak to anyone?"<p>

"No," Shawn shook his head. "He was just carrying a bag, like the one from last time and he was dirty. Had dirt on his knees and shoes, and I think the front of his shirt was dirty, too, but he was wearing a coat, so I couldn't see it very clearly."

Lassiter rubbed his forehead and flipped through the notes Shawn had taken. "Cvitković."

"That sounds like the name," Shawn nodded, getting excited. "That was him."

Carlton dug through his files and found the photograph. "You saw _him_?"

Shawn peered at the picture. "Yep. That was him. A few pounds heavier now."

They sat down in the chairs beside Lassiter's and Juliet's desks and leaned forward, elbows on their knees, watching with keen interest as the head detective brought up Cvitković's information on his computer. He was just getting to the man's address when his phone rang. He snatched up the receiver and barked "Lassiter." He handed the file to Spencer, who began reading through it quickly, his hands starting to shake.

"You're kidding me."

Shawn and Gus looked up at Lassiter, whose face had gone white. _White_.

"We'll be right there." Carlton hung up and pressed his fingers to his forehead for a moment before jumping to his feet, an expression of mayhem on his face.

"What? What?" Shawn said, standing up. "What is it?"

"They found another body. In a…damn…damn it…" He was grabbing his suit jacket and stalking out of the station, Shawn and Gus on his heels, both feeling sick to their stomachs and knowing now that it was going to be a long night. "Damn it!"

* * *

><p><em>A drainage ditch<em>.

Shawn had already thrown up everything he had eaten that day, and was leaning against a tree, trying to catch his breath. The remains of the girl were barely even that – she had been ripped open, her entrails spread out around her, like something out of the Whitechapel Murders of the late 19th century. Someone with the CSU had said something about _teeth_ marks on her neck and face. Shawn seriously doubted he'd be able to eat anything for the next few months. That image was going to stay with him forever, and his knees buckled again as his stomach lurched and he brought up what little remained in his stomach.

Gus was in a cruiser, just wanting to be away from the scene. Lassiter and O'Hara were standing at the edge of the ditch, looking down at what was left of the girl, who was not yet identified. Much of her blood had already drained out and was mixed with the dirty water spilling into the culvert. Lassiter looked up at the mall sign – Oceanfront. The body was less than four city blocks, distance-wise, from the entrance to the Macy's. He had come into the mall after killing this girl and had passed Spencer and Guster on his way through to the other side and out of Sears, where he had parked his car. It wasn't clear, yet, if he had gone in there find another victim, or if he had found her in that mall or not.

Shawn felt someone touch his shoulder, and turned around to see Lassiter standing there, his face still a little pale, but otherwise collected. It was not for the first time that Shawn wondered how Lassiter could handle it so well.

"It's not your fault, Spencer." He looked rather eerie in the lights from the news vans and police cruisers. Shawn glimpsed the ME's van pulling up and parking, and swallowed when the group of men started down into the ditch to collect the girl's remains, all carrying black bags.

"I should have…"

"He killed her before you saw him," Lassiter said calmly. "I've got sixteen others on my conscience. Why'dya think I ended up getting shipped off to that rest home or whatever it was?"

Spencer swallowed and nodded, still unable to look directly at the other man. "Yeah. So…now what?"

"We go get him, that's what."

"It's all circumstantial, though, isn't it?" Shawn questioned.

Carlton nodded. "We'll figure it out. Go home, Spencer. You look like you're about to toss up a boot."

"I think I already did."

* * *

><p>Cvitković was taking a stroll through the park near his house, and stopped at a newspaper stand, where he purchased a Croatian-language paper before starting back toward home. He barely even glanced over when a young man stepped up beside him and asked for a light.<p>

"I am sorry, I do not smoke," he said politely.

"Just keep walking, sir," the young man said. Another young man suddenly was at his other side, walking abreast, turning his head to smile congenially at him.

"Keep walking, sir," the young man said pleasantly. "We don't want to cause a scene, and I'm sure you don't want to, either."

"What…?" He looked around and noticed that several men, all wearing ordinary street clothes, were around him, none looking hurried or agitated at all. In fact, by all appearances, they were just out for a pleasant stroll.

A police cruiser and two other unmarked cars were stopped at the curb, and Cvitković was guided to the cruiser. The first young man gently urged him in, reminding him to avoid bumping his head, and suddenly he was seated beside a uniformed policeman, and another uniformed officer got in as well, so that he was pushed into the middle. A very tall, innocent-faced young man was driving, and beside him in the passenger seat was the tall, blue-eyed detective who had interrogated him a few months ago. The detective only glanced back at him before saying, "Let's go, McNab." With that, the car pulled out into traffic and headed toward the police station. The entire operation had taken less than three minutes, with no fuss.

Two young girls walked by where the cruiser had been parked, speaking their native tongue and laughing together, unaware of anything but their eagerness to get to the mall to do a bit of shopping.

* * *

><p>Carlton didn't really <em>expect<em> to see that Cvitković had a family, even though Whitestone had been right about practically everything else. Nonetheless, he stood in the living room of Cvitković's comfortable-looking home, watching his wife and two children in amazement. The wife was a hollow-eyed, bitter-looking woman of perhaps fifty, spare and cold, thin arms and knees crossed as she sat in her chair, glaring at them as they searched her house. She had said she knew nothing about his leather bag or what was in it, then she had spewed out hateful invective against her husband: his inadequacy, his _nothingness_, his lack of ambition. It was only when she started in, right in front of her kids, for God's sake, about his impotence that Lassiter had told her to stop talking.

The two children – two boys in their mid-teens – were both bewildered, angry and _scared_, and would soon require counseling from CPS. The CSU detectives were meticulously searching the house, and it wasn't long before the leather bag was found in an armoire upstairs. Melissa Hardwicke came downstairs, holding the bag, and opened it for Carlton to look inside.

"Three knives," she said quietly. "We're looking for others. He was something of a collector."

"Yeah, I'll bet he was," Carlton muttered.

The phone was ringing, and a CSU picked it up. "Yes, this is the Cvitković home. Who is calling?" A pause. "Really? The mayor's office? This is Detective Mullins, from the SBPD crime scene unit, and Mr Cvitković is under arrest as of this morning. If you'll please direct your call to the Santa Barbara police department, I'm sure they'll be happy to answer your questions. Yes. Thank you." He hung up. "Detective Lassiter?"

"Yeah, I know," Carlton answered, looking at Juliet, who handed him another bag. He looked inside and saw two more knives. "It's only just beginning."

* * *

><p>A doctor had been called to the station, to examine Cvitković, who had several wounds on his hands and arms, which he claimed were from garden work. A more thorough physical exam revealed other interesting abrasions on the man's body, which the doctor noted on the report before handing it over to Carlton, who read through it before handing it over to Whitestone, who started typing away and making phone calls.<p>

Carlton stayed at his desk, Juliet usually at his elbow, as they worked over every set of crime scene photos and meticulous notes that they had both taken. Subordinates were called in to drag up boxes from the evidence room. Lunch was called in from a Chinese place. She felt exhausted by four o'clock, but Carlton got up and made a fresh pot of coffee and her engines were soon firing again, and they continued on, combing through every bit of information that tied Cvitković to each crime scene. His clothes were being brought in from his home, and were being combed through carefully. Every knife was being examined, and compared to every available stab wound. Woody's meticulous drawings were examined. Photographs were poured over.

Whitestone sat at his desk, usually doing his own bit of pawing through notes and photographs and his own profile of the killer, but he was occasionally caught watching the two detectives as they worked. It was as if they had their own private language, and even though there was no romantic light to their relationship at all, he couldn't help but think they were like a married couple. They finished each others' thoughts, knew what the other needed before the request was even made, and were able to laugh at each other and even compete without the slightest trace of rancor or bitterness. Lassiter clearly viewed O'Hara as a little sister he was determined to teach and protect, to the death, and she clearly loved and admired the older man, and was just as fiercely protective of him.

He shook his head, amazed, and slogged on, determined to make the case stick and finally end this nightmare.

* * *

><p>Marlowe stood beside her car, watching with nervous interest as a crowd began forming outside the station. She couldn't understand what most of the people were saying, but from their ages and attitudes, she had little trouble deducing that they were the parents and families of the seventeen girls that had been murdered. They were initially quiet, and only stood in the parking lot and on the sidewalk, talking together, but it wasn't long before they began accosting policemen coming and going from the station, demanding to see the monster who had killed their children.<p>

"_Daj nam__čudovište__, a mi ćemo __se pobrinuti za__njega_!" someone in the crowd yelled. Marlowe didn't know what that meant, but more of them started shouting as well, and she figured the phrase had something to do with getting a rope. Several were holding up photographs of the slain girls. The women were openly weeping, but the men looked like any typical father who had lost a beloved child: they looked furious. Marlowe looked at her watch – it was almost eight o'clock, and she wondered if Carlton would get out of there alive.

Finally, the doors of the station opened and she saw Carlton come out, Juliet and Whitestone beside him, with Guster and Spencer behind. The crowd rushed forward, shouting, and Marlowe gasped when she saw a man grab Carlton and begin shouting in his face. He flinched slightly, not prepared for such rage, but he didn't retaliate. In fact, he withstood it with remarkable calm.

"What's wrong with you?" she heard Spencer yell. "These are the people who _caught_ the bastard! Let them through! Let them through, dammit!"

The shouting died down, and the crowds backed off. Then Marlowe heard someone start clapping. Soon, the entire crowd was applauding, few of them speaking, but all expressing their appreciation, some even reaching out to thump him, Whitestone and Juliet on their shoulders. Carlton threaded his way through, only nodding slightly to acknowledge their praise, and finally made his way across the parking lot, where he saw Marlowe and grinned at her.

"Hey. Ready to go home?" He glanced back and saw O'Hara and Whitestone making their way through the throng and heading toward his car, with Spencer and Guster tagging along. They were all going out for Mexican. Whitestone had become a Tex-Mex addict and wanted sopapillas.

"I certainly am. A good day?" she said, hugging him fiercely.

"Finally," he nodded. "Right in the nick of time, too. How was the Renaissance fair?"

"Silly, just as I expected. And you, my dear Carlton, have a lifetime of good days ahead of you," she told him, and kissed him soundly, her arms threading around his neck, sighing when he relaxed and hugged her, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around a couple of times.

* * *

><p>"…not like it will be easy to get a confession…"<p>

"…mayor's office is still squawking about this…"

"…is refusing to confess to anything besides having molested a girl back in Croatia…"

"…possible he may have killed at least two girls in Split…"

Every news outlet on the freaking _planet_ seemed to be in the large room where the Serial Killer Unit met each Tuesday, and a special meeting had been called on Saturday morning. Carlton caught a brief glimpse of Milos Stanish, who raised his head and looked at him for only a second before ducking his head and returning to his notes. The mayor, chewing on his lower lip, wasn't saying much. The other city councilmen and task force members were also rather muted, but no one was denying that the killer had been caught and that a strong case was being built against him.

O'Hara had been corralled by a reporter from Atlanta and he heard a brief snippet of her statement. "…Detective Lassiter's idea, not mine, so direct your questions to him, he deserves the credit…" He snickered to himself and went to his seat. Whitestone was already sitting there, his ever-present profile folder in his lap. Carlton wondered if he slept with that thing. He also wondered if he was sleeping with O'Hara, because when he had gone to pick her up earlier that morning, Whitestone's car had been parked in her driveway and he had come out of the house before Carlton had gotten out of the car.

He glanced back and scanned the room, finally catching sight of Spencer and Guster, both of whom were grandstanding for the reporters. Spencer never could resist airtime, but instead of feeling irritated, it just made him laugh a little. Spencer _had_ spotted the killer at the mall. He wasn't going to deny the little whelp his day in the sun.

Carlton loosened his tie.

The mayor started banging a gavel on the table, and it still took a while for the crowd to quiet down. Carlton settled into a chair and faced the council. Vick got to her seat right on time. Juliet dropped into a chair beside him.

"We wish to congratulate the Santa Barbara Police Department for capturing the alleged killed, Andrej Cvitković."

Raucous applause began, mainly from a few victims' family members that had managed to stuff themselves into the room, but the mayor's gavel banging finally shushed it. The final meeting of the unit was called to order, and Carlton flinched a little as the cameras turned on him. Stanish kept his mouth shut, and the mayor cleared his throat. "Detective Lassiter, I believe you're here to inform us of a suspect?"

"Yes, sir. Andrej Cvitković, who emigrated to Santa Barbara five years ago from Split, Croatia, is our primary suspect now, and he is currently being held at the Santa Barbara County Jail, where he is going through preliminary questioning."

"And what evidence do you have against him?"

"Mud and grass stains on his pants match the mud and grass at the last crime scene, which was a drainage ditch near the Oceanside Mall. Six of his collection of ten knives match stab wounds on fourteen of the dead girls. Three of the girls' bodies were too decomposed to provide a positive match, but the CSI unit is still testing DNA and trace evidence on all the knives in his collection. We also found spots of blood on three of his shirts that match the blood of three of the girls, including several spatters of blood on the shirt he was wearing Friday night, which match the blood of the final victim, who has not yet been identified."

The mayor paled. He was married to the man's _sister_.

"Cvitković also had superficial cuts on his hands. DNA found under the last victim's fingernails match his DNA profile."

"I see," the mayor said softly, looking shell-shocked.

"I'm sorry, sir," Carlton said. "I know this will be very painful for your wife."

"The last victim fought for her life," Whitestone said, from beside Carlton, startling him. "His attack on her was…particularly savage as a result, I think." He glanced around at the reporters. "We'll save the details for the official report, sir. It's all kind of…awful."

"Right." The mayor rubbed his forehead. "Well. I think this meeting can convene now." He stood, gathering up his papers. He glanced at Lassiter and nodded to Stanish. "Milos, I think you've got something to say, don't you?"

Milos Stanish frowned, then finally steeled himself before speaking. "I wish to issue my…apology…to Detective Lassiter for my behavior earlier. It was…wrong of me."

Carlton only shrugged and stood up. He wasn't accustomed to being apologized to, anyway. O'Hara tapped his arm and he gave her a look. A sharp look from her in return made his shoulders sag and he looked at Stanish again. "No problem," he finally said. "But I still wouldn't vote for you."

* * *

><p>Translation:<p>

Croatian: _Daj nam__čudovište__, a mi ćemo __se pobrinuti za__njega_ – 'Give us the monster. We will take care of him'

I highly recommend everyone watch _Wives & Daughters_, because it's wonderful and romantic and beautifully acted and I want to climb up Anthony Howell, turn out the lights, and kiss him all over...

(_Wives & Daughters_ is Netflix online, by the way. Just saying. I'm watching it now.)


	13. The Last Man

I kind of had a _The Untouchables_ conclusion to this story, but went in a direction I wasn't really aiming for at first, because it's rather...oh, mawkish, but oh well. I liked it, because I can just picture it.

Thanks for the nice reviews. I've got another story idea simmering, but it's not boiling yet, so it's going to take a while. It's also Lassiet, so be warned. :)

* * *

><p>Lassiter sat next to Juliet, forearms on the table, staring across at Andrej Cvitković, who was still saying nothing after almost an hour. He kept delaying and delaying, and so far the only thing he had said was that he was tired and would talk about what he had done <em>tomorrow<em>. It was starting to annoy Juliet, and from the tiny little twitch in the corner of Carlton's eye, it was annoying him, too. She glanced at her partner, who picked up a pencil and began bouncing it on the table, looking down at the file on the last victim.

"So you're tired and don't want to talk now?" Carlton finally asked.

"Yes."

"That's too bad, because I'm not tired. I had a good night's sleep last night. First time in…oh, _months_. Slept like a rock, not a single nightmare. Not even a dream." He leveled his gaze at Cvitković, who studied him. "Funny how a clear conscience can make a man sleep well."

Cvitković swallowed.

"Bet you haven't been sleeping well, have you?"

Juliet glanced at Carlton. He opened the folder, and she realized it wasn't the case file. It was Whitestone's profile. It had no title – she and John had discussed titles for his 'thesis' several times, but had never been able to agree on a good name for it. Finally, he had said he wasn't comfortable with even giving it one. He wanted to close the case as soon as possible, frankly, and breathe again.

"When was the last time you slept well, Mr Cvitković?"

The man shrugged slightly.

"All this preliminary stuff here…the FBI profiler wrote all this to basically make himself sound brilliant," Carlton said with a wry smile. He knew Whitestone was on the other side of the glass and was probably snickering. "And I'll grant that the guy is pretty sharp. More than the average tack." He turned the pages slowly and finally came to the first, most important part. "He writes here, 'The murderer of these girls had a psychologically terrifying childhood, beginning with abusive and neglectful parents. His early years were mainly spent in isolation, where his greatest inner fantasy was to find social acceptance and praise from his peers, particularly from members of the opposite sex'."

Cvitković looked directly at Carlton for the first time, who continued reading, his finger gliding down the page to the next marked paragraph. "'His sexuality, from the beginning, was at best described as 'stunted'. He was completely incapable of courtship or romance, however much he might have fantasized about such things, but it is entirely possible and in fact likely that the killer is married and has a family'." He looked up at Cvitković, who actually met his gaze for the briefest of moments before looking at his hands.

Juliet listened as Carlton continued reading from the report, his voice rasping only a little. She drew in her breath as he got to the part about Cvitković's methods of killing. "'Many of the victims – at least eight of them – had semen on their bodies, rather than inside, because it is the theory of the profiler that the killer was not able to actually ejaculate until the girl was actually in the final throes of her agony'."

At this, Cvitković drew in a shuddering breath and bowed his head, his forehead almost touching the table. Carlton only glanced up at him before he continued. "'The killer also gouged out the eyes of many of his victims because he believed in the Eastern European folk legend that the image of the murderer would remain on the eyes of her assailant." He looked up at Cvitković, who was shaking so badly that Juliet feared he might fall from his chair. He balled his hands into fists, and had his knuckles pressed together, sobbing, a line of drool spilling from his mouth.

"'The girls that were raped, of course, had very little or almost no semen inside their bodies, largely due to the impotence of the killer, whose level of savagery in his assaults of his victims is directly proportional to his inability to perform these acts. The only way he seems able to actually achieve anything approaching orgasm is by actually witnessing the pain and agony of his victim in her final, terror-filled moments'." Carlton looked up at Cvitković. "'And even then, he more often than not was unable to even achieve orgasm at all, and thus several of his attacks were even more violent than others'."

Cvitković was shuddering, his face as white as a sheet, and Juliet had to resist the urge to ask him if he needed a blanket, or something to drink.

"It was that way with the last…her name was Natasha Jusić. I paid her." His voice was shaking so badly it was hard to understand him. Or maybe she didn't really want to understand him. Juliet felt sick and wanted to curl up on her bed, covered with blankets, and cry. She was sitting in a room with a monster. _A monster_.

Carlton glanced at the window, and knew that Vick was already sending McNab upstairs to start tracing the girl's family.

"I could not…could not…and she laughed at me…" He wiped his eyes, and Carlton flinched at the cold light there. This broken man was still a cold-blooded murderer, and he spared him no sympathy.

"Mr Cvitković," Juliet finally said softly. "Are there any others?"

He looked at her, eyes like a shark's, and his shoulders lifted a little. Carlton swallowed then. _Others_. He sat back in his chair. The uniformed officer behind Cvitković came over and helped the man get to his feet. Juliet looked at her partner, still reeling. "My _God_."

* * *

><p>The press had been barred from following them. Only a small flotilla of uniformed cops, CSU's and other detectives went along as Cvitković led them to six more bodies. All were within just a few blocks of Santa Barbara's malls. When the age of the last victim was revealed, Carlton felt his knees buckle slightly, and he had to turn away and walk up the hill, to be alone. <em>Twelve years old<em>.

He remembered what Marlowe had said about Civil War battlefields – about the futures and dreams lost there, and a whole generation wiped out. He had always felt a certain degree of detachment from those places, thinking instead of the cause they were fighting for, and the great generals leading them. He hadn't really let himself think a lot about those boys themselves.

As a child, he had played Civil War games with his brother and cousins, and they had always fought over who got to play Lee and Jackson and Stuart (Carlton, being the strongest and the toughest, was usually Jackson). None of them even bickered over who played Grant and Sherman, who were dull and dreary (or malevolent) at their best, and had never inspired anybody to great acts of daring courage.

It had not really dawned on Carlton or his brother or the other boys of those decades ago that thousands of young men in blue and beechnut grey had died on those fields, and sometimes their bodies were never even given proper, honored burials. What had been their dreams? What of their families? How had they continued on?

How were the families of those girls going to overcome this? What could ever be said or done for them to make it better?

Feeling a weariness enter his bones, and not sure if that exhaustion would ever leave him, he leaned against a squadcar and looked down the hill, watching as the twenty-second victim of Cvitković's rampage was gently removed from her hiding place. Just bones, a small gold necklace, and a backpack containing some personal items – she had been running away from home, if the contents were any indication.

Why? Why had Cvitković done this?

He doubted the question could ever be answered to anyone's satisfaction.

* * *

><p>Marlowe sighed and settled in beside Carlton. He wasn't feeling well – he had thrown up everything he had eaten for dinner and had stretched out on the couch, watching television. Not surprisingly, he had avoided crime dramas and had instead settled on, of all things, <em>Tangled<em>. She had held his head in her lap, stroking his hair, watching as Flynn cut Rapunzel's hair and Mother Gothel fell from the towel, turning to dust before she even hit the ground. Now, the house was silent. The ghosts or whatever also occupied the house were silent tonight, maybe out of respect for the weary man in her arms now.

He turned to her, and she saw tears in his eyes, and she knew better than to comment on them. He would just become even more miserable. "He killed twenty-two young girls, Marlowe," he said softly.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"What kind of world are we living in?" he asked her wearily.

She brushed a tear away from his cheek. "A very confusing one," she finally answered. "But there's always hope, isn't there?"

He seemed to find that rather amusing. "Hope, huh?" he asked, smiling a little.

"Yes. Remember that story, about Pandora's Box? She opened the box and all that bad stuff – hate and cruelty and selfishness, murder, death - flew out, but she released hope, too, and so mankind has always had hope."

"Well, I lean toward the Judeo-Christian narrative, but I'm a lapsed Catholic with strong Protestant leanings. Don't tell our old family priest, Father Francis. He'd have a stroke."

She laughed softly. "I like that notion, too. The narrative, I mean. The light, the truth, the salvation. One little match, and it lights up the whole room. One life, and it gives everybody a chance. I think it has to be God - the source of hope, right? Hope can't come from a series of random accidents, after all."

He nodded, and pulled her into his arms, brushing his lips against her temple. "I love you, Marlowe. Just in case I didn't say that earlier."

"You didn't. You were too sick and exhausted to, but I understand. It's okay. And I love you, too."

"Good. Go to sleep."

* * *

><p>"Good Lord, Marlowe," Carlton said, sitting on the edge of the bathtub and holding her hair back as she vomited into the toilet. "That stomach flu is going around, isn't it?"<p>

"I think I picked it up at work," she said, coughing miserably. "Everybody there is sick, too. We had to close up shop. No good trying to edit a documentary when there's vomit all over the film." He helped her up and got her a glass of water. She rinsed her mouth out and spat into the sink, washing the water away before letting him just pick her up and carry her back to bed. "God, I feel so miserable."

"Yeah, me too. Listen, you've been doing this all morning. You're getting dehydrated – I think you should go to the doctor."

"I hate doctors," she said, sounding just a little whiny, which was so out of character for her that he knew she really was sick.

"So do I, but some medicine might be useful right now. Anti-nausea stuff, and some antibiotics." He sat down beside her on the bed and turned the television on. "You're running out of clothes to wear, anyway, and pretty soon you'll be ruining _my_ shirts, too, so…go to the doctor, and I'll go tomorrow if I'm still sick."

"Fine, fine…hey, wait, are you actually going to go to work?"

"I have to," he said.

"You_ have_ to?"

"Well, the serial killer case had us pretty well swamped, but now that that's over, there's lots of stuff to catch up on and O'Hara's about to be buried under paperwork, and she's developing a pretty bad cough as it is, so…"

Marlowe gave him a fisheye, and he sat down again. "Your concern for her and your duty as a policeman is admirable, Detective, but you will stay home today and go to the doctor with me. You're almost as dehydrated as I am, and I heard you throwing up this morning."

"That was…uh…yeah, I was throwing up." He wearily picked up the phone and called Vick to inform her that he wasn't going to be at work this morning, and to get McNab in there to help O'Hara with the paperwork. Vick was pretty understanding and told him to take as much time off as he needed.

* * *

><p>"You have stomach flu, Detective," Woody said. Carlton glared at the coroner for a second, but his stomach did another lurch and he headed for the bog without any kind of smart remark. He had only snuck over to the station for a minute, to pick up a couple of files, and had run into the coroner at the front desk. Next thing he knew, he was getting his temperature taken and Woody was feeling the glands in his neck. Being examined by a <em>coroner<em> hadn't exactly been part of his Big Plan for the Day, and Dobson's comment about how he looked like death anyway hadn't helped.

His cell phone started ringing as he left the john, and he did a quick sidestep to avoid Spencer and Guster as they made their way down the stairs, both apparently off to visit the eccentric coroner. He leaned against the wall, took a few deep breaths, and answered.

"Carlton, where on earth are you?"

"Uh…" He looked around the station. "I'm…" He sighed. He couldn't lie to Marlowe. "I'm at the station," he finally admitted.

"What did I tell you about going to work, Carlton?" she said, sounding as irritated as a sick, miserable woman could.

"You said not to, and I didn't, I swear. I just had to pick up a file. That's all! Really!" He glanced over and saw O'Hara and Whitestone sitting at her desk, and she smirked at him.

"Well, the doctor's office is swamped with other flu victims anyway, and the doctor can't see you today. He'll see you tomorrow."

"Well, the coroner says I have stomach flu, anyhow, and he's gonna get me some…meds."

"Right." He heard the sink running. "Wait…the _coroner_?"

"Yeah. Don't ask."

"I'm afraid to. Anyway, maybe you can meet me for dinner tonight? We need to…uh…talk. Not like we'll be eating much anyway."

"About what?" he asked, feeling an immediate rush of terror.

"Just…some things. We need to talk about some things. Carlo's? Is seven o'clock okay?"

"Uh…yeah," he said, hoping he didn't sound as dejected as he felt.

* * *

><p>Carlton was attempting to get past O'Hara's desk without being seen, but he knew the jig was up the second he saw Whitestone's head rise. The rangy South African's gaze was on him, which made O'Hara pop up from a stack of papers they were pouring over, and she jumped to her feet, looking…good Lord, <em>guilty<em>? He looked between the two of them, trying to draw a conclusion but too mentally weary to really hook onto one. If she was dating Whitestone, then he would give the FBI profiler the same warning speech he had given Spencer a few months ago: if he hurt O'Hara, he would discharge his weapon…repeatedly.

Whitestone, however, gave him a grin and gestured. "Can we talk for a moment, Detective?"

"Uh…sure…just be warned I'm probably contagious and I might toss up my cookies on your shoes."

The FBI profiler shook his head, grinning. "Chief Vick's office is empty right now…" He gestured toward the door. Carlton trailed reluctantly after Whitestone into the room, and the agent shut the door. He took a seat at Vick's desk, which made Carlton's eyebrows rise just a little, but Whitestone didn't seem ill at ease at all. Instead, he leaned back in the chair and nodded.

"The DA's office called and said they're going for the death penalty," he said. He didn't look grim or happy about it. More like…indifferent.

"Oh. Right. Well. That's…"

"Do you remember, Detective, when we first met?"

"Uh…"

"That I told you that 'fabulous' was not the word the director the FBI's profiling unit director used to describe you. I was being very honest."

"Well. Great…" Carlton felt his anxiety about Marlowe twisting in his stomach and now being joined by another miserable knot: a sense of being kicked while he already felt down. He glanced back at the door and wished he could just make a break for it.

"He actually said that, per your record as a policeman and then as a detective, that very few superlatives could be used to describe you properly. We spoke today about your running this case against this…_monster_, along with the derision of certain members of the press and the small-mindedness of the local authorities, and he wished to express his admiration and respect."

"Oh….uh…what?" Carlton blinked against the bright light coming in through the window blinds. Any and all light made his eyes hurt. He frankly just wanted to curl up in a ball and whimper.

"He wanted me to convey to you that in his opinion he has never come across a detective who is as pains-taking, meticulous, honest or as determined as yourself. He wanted to remind you, of course, that within his department, profilers and investigators of serial killers are rotated on a six-month basis, to avoid the inevitable mental and emotional exhaustion and even breakdowns that can occur due to too much frustration while investigating such cases, particularly those cases that involve the very young and the very innocent."

Carlton nodded, feeling a lump in his throat.

"He was made aware, of course, of the week that you took off from this investigation, and felt that he ought to reprimand your commanding officer, Chief Vick, that you were not required to take more time off. He spoke with her at length about that, actually, and came away with the same conclusion that she has about you – that you have no limits of your endurance. I must say that I concur, Detective."

"Oh…" Carlton nervously tugged at his collar. "But I can't take all the credit…"

"Yes you can, and you will," Whitestone said with a grin. "I'm aware of the hard work and dedication of Detective O'Hara, and she is also to be _highly_ commended for her exemplary work. She is very young but she has a brilliant future, so long as she continues working with you and learning from you." He cleared his throat. "The director of the profiling unit also wishes to say that, should he ever find himself on the run from the law, the very _last_ detective he would ever want to have chasing him would be you, because you are relentless, unyielding, and do not know the meaning of the word 'quit'. Again, I felt right in agreeing with his opinion."

Carlton stared down at his shoes. Whitestone laughed.

"Not used to being praised?"

He shook his head.

"Well, get used to it. Detective O'Hara had to be restrained from calling every newspaper in the country about what you did, and what you've been through. I did not restrain her from calling a particular 'newspaper' in Santa Barbara and demanding they issue a public apology to you for their mistreatment of you during this case and in the past. I think she threatened evisceration if they did not immediately publish said apologies and retractions."

Carlton only shrugged. O'Hara was tiny, but she was like a little wolverine when crossed, and particularly when somebody hurt him – he was the same way about her, except he was capable of far greater damage. Whitestone shook his head. "Anyway, we're moving Cvitković this afternoon to Sacramento. He'll likely be tried up there. The local jury pool isn't exactly very likely to be ignorant of this case, after all. Thank you, sir." He stood, shook Carlton's hand, clapped him on the shoulder, and left. Carlton sat back in the chair, too stunned, really, to know how to process Whitestone's words. Finally, wiping his eyes and clearing his throat, he stood up, knees shaking a little, and left.

At least he had his career. After tonight, he doubted he would have anything else.

* * *

><p>"You look terrible," Marlowe said, watching him settle wearily into the chair opposite her.<p>

"Thanks," he mumbled back, feeling more and more miserable.

"I'm sorry. Probably not helping. The coroner said you have stomach flu, huh?"

"Yes, and somehow, that ended up being pretty appropriate. But hey, my career's going well." He sat back in the chair, rubbing his temples. "So…uh…you wanted to talk…uh…talk?"

"Yes. I hope you don't mind meeting in a public place, because while I know you're sick as a cat, I figured you wouldn't freak out here." She picked up a menu, looked at the items offered and paled before putting it down.

"I won't freak out," he said. "I didn't freak out last time. Just…just signed the papers and said goodbye."

"What?"

"That's what this is about, right? You're ending it. I don't blame you. I'm no prize, that's for sure, and the past few months have been pretty crappy, what with the serial killer and all and trying to live in a house that may or may not be haunted, and now I look like something that passed through the system of a sick old woman. Plus I'm old and tired and I have bad knees and I'm cranky all the time…"

"I'm ending it?" she asked, looking confused.

"Well, _yeah_. I don't blame you. I'll try to stay out of the house while you gather up your stuff. I know you didn't move much in. If you could leave a bra behind, that would be appreciated…" He immediately felt horrified. "Uh…sorry. Fever talking, I guess."

"I am not leaving you, and I am not breaking up with you, silly," Marlowe said, staring at him with an expression that was half annoyed, half amused. "I have no intention of going anywhere without you, thank you, except that in about six months I'll have to spend maybe a day or so in the hospital after the baby is born."

"Oh. Right." He snatched up his glass of water and chugged it down. "What?"

"A baby, Carlton. I'm having a baby."

"Oh." He blinked at her, her statement not sinking in completely. He figured his fever was spiking now. "You're…wait, you're pregnant? With…with a…with a _baby_?"

"No, with a trash compactor. Yes, a baby!" Marlowe said, looking concerned now. "Oh, God, you really are sick! I shouldn't have made you come here."

"'s'all'ight," he mumbled, feeling woozy. "But we always used protection…"

"Well, apparently, one of your little guys got over the wall. And no form of protection is foolproof, as should be pointed out in every sex ed class in America. Not that I was going to _abstain_ when you were sitting there looking so gorgeous…"

He stared, wide-eyed, at her. "So that was what was causing all the vomiting and…geesh, am I pregnant too?" He waved at a waiter. "Double shot of Jack Daniels and an orange duck, please. I'm ready to eat."

"Eighty-six the Jack, please," Marlowe told the waiter. "He's in no condition for hooch right now, much less a duck. Neither am I, actually. Water please."

"Thank you, Gunga Din. I'm a father." He blinked against the candlelight. "A _baby_?"

"Yes, Carlton."

"Dear God, a Lassiter spawn."

"A beautiful baby," Marlowe said, laughing. "God, when the doctor said I was pregnant, I figured I should be freaking out, scared out of my mind. Instead, I was just so…happy. Still am. Kind of in shock, I guess, but this is the most exciting thing that's happened to me since…well, since we conceived this little guy."

"Guy?" Carlton wheezed. He was still reeling, the reality of this situation sinking in. "And you're not dumping me?"

"Carlton, please focus," Marlowe said, sipping her water and shaking her head. "I think it'll be a boy."

"God help her if it's a girl. God help me…" He rubbed his face. "My God…"

"Yes, I can see you sitting there, cleaning your gun, the second some boy comes near any daughter of yours. And if it is a girl, we'll just keep trying until we get a boy."

"Lassiter's no name to carry forward," he muttered.

"Remember all those conversations we've had about your low self-esteem?" she said firmly. "Lassiter is a proud Irish name…"

"I'm descended from a guy who burned a Georgia farmer's house to the ground and shot all his cattle. He was no hero – he was a damned Yankee asshole. I have a great-uncle who burned a café down in Arkansas because his eggs were runny. I have an great-aunt who may have murdered her…"

"Carlton, hush," Marlowe said, rolling her eyes. "We're going to be just fine. And this is going to be a beautiful baby. I guarantee it."

"How can you guarantee something like that?" he asked, looking skeptical. "I mean, if it looks like you, fine, but me…"

"If he looks like you, he'll be breaking hearts. It's that silly hope thing, really, and then there's that other thing…faith. Besides, if the baby's ugly, what are you gonna do? Leave it on somebody's porch, or sell it to gypsies? C'mon. We're having a baby. The very _symbol_ of hope."

"H-How far along are you?"

"Three months. I should have realized something was going on, but what with the serial killer and how stressed you were, and how that was sort of stressing me out…"

"I'm sorry about that…you're…uh…otherwise in good health?"

"It's okay, and yes, the doctor said I'm very healthy and so long as I do everything I should this will be an uneventful pregnancy. I just didn't really realize I was late, and I've never really had heavy…uh…you know, periods, so I didn't think anything of it. Then I get this stomach flu and go to the doctor today and…hey, guess what, Miss Vecchillio, you're pregnant! Stomach flu's pretty mild. Just can't take antibiotics, of course. I just have to tough it out and drink gallons of water."

"So most of that was morning sickness?"

"Yep."

"Have you told your parents?"

"Not yet." She took another drink of water. "We'll tell them. And by the way, now that you've caught the killer, I seem to recall you saying we would go to Bimini for a vacation. I am _holding_ you to that promise."

He sat back, the notion of fatherhood still only halfway settled in his head, and stared at her, his soulmate, the one person he felt he could really confide in about anything, and she was _pregnant_, and willing to actually give birth to his child. He fumbled with the silverware, crumbled up his piece of bread, slid his finger around the rim of his crystal glass until it started to 'sing', and finally he dug into his coat pocket and put the little ring on the table.

"I bought that two weeks ago," he said. "It's not…much. I mean, it's not cheap or anything, but it's just…"

Marlowe picked up the ring and examined it. "Should I get one of those little eye-bally things jewelers use?" she asked, peering at the setting, and got a grin from him in return. "It's beautiful." It was a simple antique silver ring with an amethyst setting, and she let him slide it on her finger, noting that his hands were shaking just a little. "So you've been thinking about proposing, Carlton?"

"One of us was going to have to," he said, swallowing nervously, blue eyes almost violet in his nervousness.

"I guess I'll just have to make an honest man of you and marry you then, Carlton."

"Okay."

"Good! Then that's settled. Church or city hall?"

"Uh…well, oddly enough, my mother thinks God lives at church, so if she finds out about this, she'll insist on a church, but it doesn't really matter to me. What you want is what counts."

Marlowe smiled. "I would like a church wedding, actually. Small and simple, but…with an acknowledgement of Him, because I thank Him every day for _you_." She looked upward and smiled. "And I think you should order some nice, soothing chicken noodle soup."

"Names?" he asked, picking up the menu and looking upward as well. He felt a strange calm settle on him. There really was nothing to fear, aside from the final puddle-jumper flight they would have to take to get to Bimini.

"For chicken noodle soup?" she asked, looking at him over the top of the menu.

"Baby names."

"Oh. Right. Something Irish, obviously."

"Eh…" He made a noncommittal gesture. "How 'bout Italian?"

She shook her head. "I'm pretty far removed from my Italian forebears, Carlton. I'm more Cajun than anything else. How 'bout Shawn?" she said, grinning.

"Dear God, no."

"Okay…Logan?"

"Too trendy."

They settled into a quiet, gently teasing debate over good names for a boy or a girl. The debate didn't end that night, and they didn't reach a mutual agreement until the day after their first son was born.

_**FIN**_


End file.
